


The Raven that Refused to Sing

by Validity_For_Dissonance



Category: Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9827915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Validity_For_Dissonance/pseuds/Validity_For_Dissonance
Summary: Following the dreadful findings at The Island, Lemony Snicket’s travels in pursuit of further documentation of the Baudelaire orphans find him in the Eldritch Harbor; but while he had readied himself for any possible lead, he did not anticipate the one that now lay unconscious in front of his eyes: Violet Baudelaire.





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: A Series of Unfortunate Events and its characters belong to Daniel Handler.

A man in his late thirties treads upon the stoned ground of Eldritch Harbor; his thin posture is concealed by the overcoat he dons, and his blue eyes are rendered invisible by the shadow overcast by his hat. In one hand, he carries a bulky briefcase, and in the other, an old typewriter.

Lemony Snicket has searched all possible locations where the sea might have deposited the three— no, four Baudelaires. He has made queries to many unpleasant persons, read countless inaccurate newspapers, and even consulted one reptile, which proved to be much more helpful than the preceding sources, but just not helpful enough.

He has searched all possible locations, except this one.

His hope for an answer, a clue, or any sort of indication regarding the children who have somehow grown dear to him throbs painfully in his chest as it battles his overriding despair. Lemony Snicket has never been an optimist, nor has the world ever given him a reason to be one.

The truth of the predicament is, by the time he managed to find their last dwelling, one year has already passed. A year without hearing a single report about them.

He had nearly given up hope of finding them altogether, until one day, fate brought upon an acquaintanceship with a volunteer and a close associate of his sister. The man was concerned about the female Snicket who failed to show up following the concluding part of a scheme that Lemony was not privy to. He confided in him the details, and the subsequent events established themselves elegantly inside the writer's head. She has been washed away to a remote island. And what island could it be other than The Island.

Lemony allowed himself to hope and his heart soared high for the first time in a whole dreadfully enduring year.

But the higher the altitude, the greater the fall.

He did not find his sister. He found her grave.

Much to his shock and chagrin, she was buried near a person he loathes. His tears were bitter with loss and betrayal.

He found that the objects of his long-lasting search were present there as well. Seemingly the last inhabitants of the forsaken island.

He found out about his niece.

Somehow knowing he has one last enduring relative, and one so young and pure at that, adds to his dread rather than help relinquish it. He fears for the girl from troubles yet to come, but resound with a threatening promise all the same.

And now, the last Snicket stares at the steam that emerges from the great sailing vessels as it integrates with the looming fog and wonders if the scene before him is reality, or the product of distorted vision brought upon by his own misty eyes.

Lemony takes in a breath and exhales, his feet taking him to a bystander in a routine engraved in his memory.

He draws near the rugged sailor, who does not acknowledge his presence at all, but rather continues to remove objects from the small keel that sits against the railway of the dock.

"Excuse me, sir," Lemony mumbles, and the man turns his head towards him in an impatient, accusatory manner, "do you know of any—"

"Oy, speak up lad!"

Lemony clears his throat and looks sideways, as if anticipating an emergent hazard. He takes one step closer to the man and raises his voice to a normal speaking volume. "Do you know of any foreign visitors that have recently come to the city by the means of this harbor?"

"Lots of foreigners come 'ere from this harbor," says the man, who is now resting his forearm atop the cargo and chewing most vexingly.

The writer glances upon the region that is seemingly more frequented by pests than by humans and whose structures are halfway enveloped by shrubberies, before nodding at the bemusedly irked sailor.

"Yes, yes of course…" Lemony mumbles. "But the ones I inquire of may have come in a rather unconventional manner."

"Lots of foreigners come 'ere in rather unconventional manners."

Lemony sighs and sits his belongings to his sides on the stained floor before extracting a photograph of three children. He hands it to his interlocutor who surveys it with a confused expression.

"Have you seen any of these children?" Lemony inquires carefully.

The man shakes his head slowly, "nope. Don' look like any kids I seen."

"I see," comes a quiet, despondent mutter from Lemony, but before he retrieves the pictures, there is a new finger pointing at its middle.

"Isn't that the girl they found this morning?" the younger man asks and Lemony sucks in a breath.

"What girl? The castaway? Naw, she looks mighty different!"

"It's her, I tell ya! Maybe a lil bit younger in the photo but I got a talent for faces."

"Is she…" interjects Lemony, his voice shaking and his breath labored. Both heads turn towards him but he finds himself at a loss for words. When he does find them, he is almost too frightened to utter them, "is she… safe?"

The young man nods, "safe and sound but a lil rough 'round the edges. You wanna see her?" he asks.

But Lemony is utterly tongue-tied and he gapes at the men with emotions he cannot name. Years of chronicling have rendered the Baudelaires into fictive characters; at certain times he could swear they are mere figments of his imagination, a desolate desire for him to have an extension of his beloved— a dream. He does not know if he is ready to be woken.

"Look 'ere mate. We got jobs to do, so you best make up your mind quick," rasps out the larger man, and Lemony nods hazily.

"I— yes," he clears his throat and begs his heart to quieten.

"I would very much like to see her," Lemony utters, soft enough for his words to be a whisper.

 

* * *

 

The grim scenery of reminiscence lends itself to distortion in the writer's mind. Vague sights and obscured sounds are collected by his senses, but he is aware of none of them. There is only the sight of the narrow road before him shortening and the sound of his heart loudly thumping. His two companions take to guiding the stranger in a decidedly neglectful manner; they speed a few feet before him, uncaring whether he follows along or not.

When they reach a cabin that is wrought by atrophy into a mildewed antiquity, they halt, and in unison, they finally turn to the enigmatic man in sounding expectancy.

Fingers that are denied blood turn white as they clutch onto the handle of a tattered briefcase. Lemony Snicket is frozen to the ground, eyes fixated on the fading label of the small shed.

He does not know if he is ready.

But the less than cordial pairs of eyes that judge him with impatient intensity implore him to step forward.

He holds his belongings in one hand and reaches towards the doorknob with the other, turning it slowly.

He is greeted by the sight of a seemingly old and somewhat stout, but rather kind looking woman, who is sat at what appears to be a reception desk. She appraises him with an uplifted brow and inclines her head in askance, may I help you? her pose would suggest.

Before he is allowed the chance to speak, his young chaperone chirps in with a friendly salute, garnering a warm grin from the motherly figure. As they exchange their greetings, Lemony finds himself both relieved and aggravated by the suspension of his mounting worries, and the attention withdrawn from him only brings about a surge of unwanted dreads.

 _She is safe_ , he reminds himself, _why should you be so distraught?_

He knows why. Because regardless of his concern for the young Baudelaire, his sympathy towards his own impending afflictions surmounts it. Lemony Snicket is at heart a selfish man, and that is a fact he has grown to accept.

Mainly, he distresses over the _what ifs_.

_What if she expects him to take her in as a guardian? What if she is put in danger, and it is all his fault? What if she is sickened upon finding out he has been publishing about her life? What if she dismisses him as simply another useless adult? What if she sees him for who he is; a self-serving, cowardly man?_

_What if she reminds him of Beatrice?_

He knows in an instant which of these possibilities he is most afraid of.

The voices in the background become subdued, and there is one distinct disruption that addresses him, gestures for him to follow and he does. The first thing that strikes him when he steps into the room that is initially hidden from view is the smell. At some point in time, this place was used for replenishing fish and various other goods before they were shipped to consumership; now as it lays forgotten with business devastated by decreased demands, the fungus and mildew have take it as a haven. Whatever furniture that resides in despondence against the peeling walls has surrendered to the mites and the dust.

Lemony brings his arm to cover his face in a movement rather involuntary, fending off the allergic effect before it draws from his eyes tears that he has worked hard to banish.

"You'll have to excuse the smell, dearie boy. You'll get used to it in a few," says the lady as she passes by him towards a corner in the room where light casts no luminance. When she sits on her knees, he knows that this is where Violet rests.

On a shriveling, dirty cot in the coldest part of a dying place.

He feels a grimace contort his face and he swallows.

Whatever command he had over his body dissolves when he sees the dark tresses of hair framing an ashen face. His wobbling legs carry his heavy body forward and his arms stretch before him, for balance or by impatience, he does not know.

When he reaches her, he feels his heart sink.

Violet's face is deadly pale, and it contrasts alarmingly against the smeared mattress below her. It is marred by bruises big and small, swollen and swelling. Malnutrition parades its victory against her feeble body which lies so defeatedly in tattered clothes that have become too large to fit her correctly. Her lips look painfully chapped and her eyes are sealed shut.

The room grows even more grim by the silence of its new occupants, and it gains a more sinister mien by the labored breathing of a girl left alone to battle the easily vanquishing death.

"Oh, Violet," chokes Lemony in a whisper that vanishes as quickly is it emanates.

His heart is shaken but his mind is reeling. He hates to see the reverberations of his descriptions and more being realized into being, hates to see the pain that her visage exudes, hates how real all of this is. It is real. Violet is real.

His shaking hand clears his eyes from treacherous foes that frequent him more than any friend. He cannot help the building incredulous anger. Anger at the strangers who have become her acquaintances by their recurrent aggression; at those who have maintained the boundary at the risk of causing her pain; at those who saw it fit to place her here; at himself for being no better than the ones he condemns.

"Why is she here?" he ask at last, in complete contradiction to his usually soft-spoken timbre, his pain channeled freely through his words, "why is she not in the infirmary?"

"We don't have no _infirmary_ ," says the large man, enunciating the last word with added emphasis, as if to mock his diction. Indeed he seemed gravely unimpressed by the quaint stranger that held him from his work with his incessant questions and fancy wording.

The lady is quick to quench any tension; she chimes in with a calming hand on the man's forearm and a sympathetic expression directed to Lemony.

"This is a very small town, you see," she explains with deliberation that mirrors that of a patient teacher's handling of a particularly slow student, "and most of those who live in it are tradesmen and sailors; always on the leave. A doctor wouldn't be heading to riches 'round here."

Lemony regards her grimly, his cynicism towards the societal mentality manifesting itself rather clearly on his countenance. He is quick to softening his disposition, however. This woman is not the mastermind behind the status quo, and it wouldn't do to take out his frustrations on other people.

"Don't you worry though, mister," says the young man who cannot seem to be bothered by the grimmest of situations, "we'll be taking her with us to the city on our next trip. Get her medicated and running on full steam," he throws an arm around Lemony's shoulder.

The writer allows the solemn smile that twists his lips for a second. Running on full steam. What a proper way to put it.

But the smile is now gone. He looks at the men and wonders how much they should be trusted. He wonders where fate would deposit her thereafter.

He has found her, and he is not willing to lose her.

Nor is he entirely willing to take her in.

It was always easier to be inquiring about her and her siblings miles away from they are, regardless of all the accompanying unpleasantness. He took refuge in knowing that whenever harm befell them, it was not because of him; he was looking after them, indirectly.

The added weight of an impending responsibility is heavy on Lemony's chest.

He does not know if he can take her in.

But time is running out. The men's sea voyage is nearing. This meeting is concluding.

He does not know…

He looks at the girl and for a second glimpses a woman whom he loves very much, very achingly…

He shouldn't.

He looks at the larger man and sees lust hidden in his eyes.

He must.

And after a few exchanged words and vehement insistence, Lemony walks down the narrow road, under the clouding sky, but instead of a briefcase and a typewriter, he carries the limp weight of Violet Baudelaire.


	2. Chapter 2

When Violet wakes, it is with a start. Brown eyes snap open before shutting yet again, hurt by the assault of the dimming light that penetrates the room from the window. She whimpers as sensation announces its resurgence with sweeps of pain; a chromatic plethora whose source of origin cannot be identified, but rather pervades her every muscle and every nerve with gradient degrees.

Her head aches, yet her mind does not respond to its pain; it strikes with a tenacity that is alarming, a thought entwined with three faces smiling at her, gesturing to her, calling her name, furthering away, shouting her name…

Klaus… Sunny… Beatrice…

Violet jerks into a sitting position, her pinpricked eyes wide open and her pain disregarded.

Klaus. Sunny. Beatrice.

Her head turns in a violent swish to the right and her gaze takes in a townscape she has never seen before; it is of dispersed buildings that range vastly in height and shape; white and black puffs of smoke arise from their chimneys to the heights of the skies, disappearing amongst the hovering clouds that are heavy with loitering rain.

Tears are quick to cloud her vision.

“No…” she rasps, her agitated throat protesting vigorously, but again, she pays it no heed.

Violet swallows and looks about her. She is in a small room with only two rustic beds including her own, a chair and a wooden, atrophying bench that is operating as a table.

The bleak cadence lent to the room warps and morphs into an azure blue; it rises and falls in waves, violent and uncompromising, as it forces hands clutching onto hands away from each other. Should the disrupted air, filled with screams of anguish, bear any influence on the supremacy of the sea, it does not show. Instead it continues its burden and tears her family away from her, until not a face is in sight, the remnants of a howled _Violet_ still lingering in the air.

But Violet is no longer at sea. The air here is dead and does not speak.

She has lost her last remaining family.

“No… no,” her hands rise to envelope her face as she shakes her head, banishing the tormenting notion and vehemently denying it.

This cannot be. She cannot have lost them.

She shakes her head to disorientation and the world swims about her.

This cannot be…

This is only a dream, and nothing more.

Exhaustion sweeps in and claims her already fatigued body, she readily accepts its embrace and falls back onto the uncomfortable bed, her half-lidded eyes trained on the roof before her. What an ironic thing that clarity should accompany exhaustion, but as a tear trails down Violet’s cheek, she knows that this is not a dream.

Just like every other misfortune in her life wasn’t a dream. Only now, it is her worst nightmare that she will dub as reality.

The thought replays in her head with resounding expediency, _you lost your family, you lost your family…_

The voice that utters these words is one that has haunted her for two years, and even after his death, it rings in her deepest moments of despair, dark and true, as if he were really there…

The gruff of his voice soon vanishes, and in its place comes a voice much more soothing; its familiarity unjarring, but rather consoling, a proverbial lantern that surfaces whenever she finds herself in the dark. But when has the light gleamed a beam so bleak and malevolent? In her own mother’s voice, she hears the words that break her heart more than any other.

_You broke your promise._

Violet quickly raises a wounded hand to stifle a sob, but it is deeper than that of the surfacing egress; it reverberates through her throat and through her chest, and soon, Violet is weeping, unhinged for the first time in decades, upon decades…

She broke her promise. She failed to protect her siblings. She failed her parents. She failed Kit.

A feeble voice of hope whispers, reminds her that she has separated from Klaus and Sunny before, only to find her way back to them again. But Violet is too tired and too weary to listen, and she finds despair much easier to cave into. Because what is the point of reunion if separation will inevitably follow?

A succeeding thought rejects the former, and thus begins a strife led by feelings and logic.

Violet clutches her head and wishes her thoughts away, her eyes clenched shut, the stress inflicted adding to the presiding pain.

There comes a small sound, so alien and paradoxically reclaiming that Violet snaps her eyes open and becomes fully alert, her instinct driving her actions even in her state of dejection.

She looks in its direction and sees a raven sitting on the windowsill, gazing at her with unabashed coal-black eyes.

Violet stares back.

She fancies for an instant that she is peering into the eyes of death and the thought brings her a morbid sense of comfort.

It caws again.

“Have you come to warn me of my approaching end?” she mumbles to the bird with a voice afflicted by tears as she sits up, enveloping her legs with spindly arms. The raven is silent. “That’s quite alright,” she says, and the emptiness she hears in her voice alarms her slightly, “I don’t think there is anything left for me to live for.”

The raven averts its black eyes, as if repulsed by her, and she silently shares its sentiment.

A sigh escapes her lips and she turns her attention completely to her ominous companion. “What are you doing here?” Violet whispers, peering out to see a desolate sky and barren, far away trees, but no other ravens in sight. She wonders if they usually travel in groups like their crow counterparts, or if they are solitary like owls. She misses Klaus.

The raven caws and draws a solemn smile from Violet. She brushes a finger along its feathers and sees a reflection of herself in its eyes, “I’m away from my family too.” The bird nibbles at her extended finger, consoling her and heeding its departure. And indeed, in a swish of melded colors, the raven has flown away, leaving behind a long, ink-black feather.

Violet takes the silky token in her hand, her eyes following the graceful movement of the black bird.

It flies high and proud, unheeding of what falls behind it and unthreatened of what is to come. The omen of death bestows upon the forsaken land a semblance of life, in irony that Violet has become very accustomed to. Beneath it walks a man clad by an overcoat and a hefty cloud of fog; his sight too is momentarily claimed by the unusual presence of the raven. Lemony lifts his head and squints to take in the black form that overlapped the already bleak sun and he frowns. Ravens and crows alike have always been objects of unease for him, although he would not consider himself to be a man of superstitions.

He looks at the raven, and he sees his brother and his sister. He sees his friends. He sees his lover.

He turns his head again. Indeed, should the bird not carry ill-will in a form intrinsic to its being, it is enough that he is reminded of it upon its sight.

Lemony sighs. The tavern in which lies another object of his unease stands before him, falling apart and decaying, but standing all the same. Its chimney spouts white puffs of smoke; a sure sign of the functioning, rusting gears that protrude from the stoned walls. They turn with effort, objecting all the while with a low-pitched screech, impossible to hear unless you have stepped into its immediate premises.

He hopes she is asleep. He does not want to face her.

He hopes she is awake. He cannot bear a longer suspension of his worries.

What indeed is certain is that there is no evading confrontation. There is no running for Lemony Snicket this time.  
He takes his steps gingerly, in a rhythm that coincides with his uneven breath. The lanterns that line the steps guide him along the stairs, his shadow walking alongside him, resembling him more than he has ever resembled himself.

He reaches the door of the small accommodation and opens it slowly, and the barrier between the lifelong acquaintances who have never met vanishes.

Blues and browns meet, and the shock that is inspired renders both Lemony and Violet stagnant.

Lemony is the first to break the silence, and Violet is the first to break the stillness.

He whispers her name so shakily, as if only by instinct, and it is the same instinct that spurs her into motion, abandoning her bed in haste and shuffling clumsily in search for an exit. It hurts him to see her like this, held together only by a compulsion for survival that predates humanity and makeshift bandaids that he designed from bedsheets.

And although he understands it completely, it still hurts him that her fear is directed towards him.

He tries calling her name again, hands raised in hopes of reassuring her that he means no harm, but experience must have snared its ugly claws into her young mind. She regards him with great distrust, back pressed firmly into the wall and limbs ready for defense against the possible assailant.

Violet’s hand shifts towards her pocket and searches its content, but it emerges empty and abated.

Her ribbon has been lost to the see as well.

She does not allow her countenance to betray disappointment and remains steadfast, although her overall disposition changes.

Lemony notes with surprise an emotion that he has never associated with Violet Baudelaire before. Deep in her brown eyes, behind the keen intelligence and the sorrow, he sees surrender.

It is not the surrender of the weak nor that of self-pity. It is laced with the wisdom of a person who has tried all the possible alternatives before finally acknowledging the inevitable. He has fallen a victim to that surrender as well, many years back. Still he was not as young as she.

But she looks anything but young.

She must be a bit older than sixteen at this point. His mind falls at dissonance at this one fact.

“What do you want from me?” she says at last.

He stutters over his words, his voice never rising beyond the pitch of a whisper, “I— nothing, Violet,” he shifts uncomfortably, searching for utterances that would surmise this most peculiar sequence of tragic years, but the mere exhortation of such proposal sounds ludicrous. He ends up murmuring, more to himself than to her, “it is a story of great length and complexity. I fall short at trying to condense it so concisely as to abate your fears and offer you the reassurance you need. Indeed it is complex…”

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, her mind quickly deriving possible significance to his words. But should his words have any effect on her, it is only to make her more weary.

Lemony sighs for what he feels is the hundredth time since morning. He regards her with eyes that reflect her own, as if to offer her entry to a most guarded secret that can only be instinctively understood and whose worth would be diminished by the attempt of its materialization.

“I will tell you all about it,” he says, voice so tired and sad, “I will tell you why you’re here and why it is me who has brought you herein. I will tell you things that I believe have escaped your knowledge, that you have the right to know,” while he is in dread of the last promise, her eyes gain a momentary glint of anticipation, “but not now,” he informs and pleads. “I know you have no reason to, but I need you to trust me at face value until then.”

Violet is silent for a while, thinking. His statements are hasty and lacking in logic. But her regard to her safety is greatly diminished with the knowledge of not being depended on; she is a lot more quicker to accede— but not trust. She cannot trust.

By the man before her, she is reminded of a broken automaton, rusted and missing gears, but with a purpose designed intrinsically in its format. He could help her, she knows. And with the scarcity of alternative options, she cannot find a better course of action.

She nods slowly and he has the look of great gratitude.

Violet is rather surprised when he moves in a flurry, depositing a typewriter and a paper bag on the table then a briefcase against its leg. He removes his overcoat and deposits it on the chair before crossing the room quickly and peering outside the window. He murmurs to himself again words that Violet does not make out, and suddenly, the light is shunned out by a dark curtain.

She follows his movements closely but keeps a good distance between them.

Lemony turns to see her regarding him with even greater suspicion, holding herself tightly and tensely.

“Oh, I do not believe I have introduced myself,” he says rather shyly, clearing his throat. “My name is Lemony… Lemony Snicket.”

Both names register in her mind with varying significance. She is unsure which to address first.

“You’re… are you related to Kit and Jacques Snicket?” she asks. His face darkens almost immediately and he looks away, carrying on with his hasty actions.

“Yes,” he says, taking out bread rolls and yoghurt from the paper bag, “they are— _were_ my siblings.”

Violet flinches at the intonation and looks at the ground, guilt clouding her face. The contrition behind the death of the two Snickets is a burden that she will carry with her to her grave, but Lemony needs not to know.

Her fears towards the strange man are quelled a little, but her discomfort around him does not ease. She does not like the notion of her being more of a malefactor than he.

Lemony offers her a sandwich of his making and she takes it hesitantly, but gratefully. Until that moment it has skipped her attention that she is starving.

“Thank you,” she says quietly and takes a sizable bite, raising a self-conscious hand to her mouth.

Lemony nods and pulls the chair for her, he gestures, “please.”

Violet relaxes herself in her chair slowly, her legs wobbling under her weight as she bends them to accommodate the new position.

The light streaming through the curtains colors the room with a purple hue; it shifts as if undecided whether to stay or depart. Lemony sits against the windowsill and finally raises a hand to remove his hat and Violet is allowed a better opportunity to appraise the man. Instantly she is reminded of Jacques; the kind man whom Violet has known only fleetingly, yet touched upon his life with a deadly print. They share the same melancholic azure eyes, but Jacques’ are open and generous in their display of his emotions. Lemony’s are guarded and layered, as if his sorrows cannot be contained in one film. But there is no mistaking it, the two are definitely brothers.

She makes a conjecture that Lemony is the younger one; more by his skittish, unavailable nature than by his appearance. Jacques must have been the caretaker, always offering support where it was due, even if it was not wanted.

Kit, she could not place. The female Snicket was fiercely independent yet nurturing all the same. Perhaps the middle child? But she did look strikingly like Jacques— could they have been twins?

“Should I make you another sandwich?” comes a sudden break in silence and Violent startles. Lemony mutters a small apology and she shakes her head, “no, thank you,” she says.

It would be a lie to say she is not still hungry, but being dotted on is not something she could get used to.

In the end, she suffices with, “I’ll make one myself.”

She holds the knife in her hand and it trembles. She silently curses her feebleness and does not retreat from the task at hand, if only to prove to herself that she is still capable.

This proves to be a fanciful delusion. After spending many hours being tossed by the sea and assaulted by the different forces of nature, Violet is definitely not capable. It is a wonder her body has withstood its nervous use thus far.

The knife draws crimson blood from her hand and she hisses, dropping the dreaded object instantaneously. Lemony rushes to her side immediately and holds the freshly wounded hand ever so carefully. He takes a white sash of linen from among the many that lie upon the table, a testament of bedsheets being torn to pieces.

“Forgive me. You are spent, of course you are… I should have taken that into consideration,” he mutters, moving to bandage her hand, but Violet shakes her head and takes the cloth from him, her blood falling in streaks to color the wooden floor. “It is my fault,” she says quietly, despondently, before going into the bathroom.

Lemony hears the sound of water rushing as he stands helplessly outside and feels the barrier between them extending beyond that of the antiquated door.

* * *

 

Writing such an emotionally charged story proves to be quite taxing. But the promise of character development is rather exciting. For now the two are nervous, awkward wrecks (especially a certain writer; can he go on with a sentence without uttering an apology?).

Speaking of apologies, forgive my tardiness in updating. I am taking intensive German courses and they do demand a lot of my time.


	3. Chapter 3

The last rays of sunlight fade into oblivion, and with the death of the day, comes the dawning of night. The lights of the obscure town do not fend off the consuming darkness, but rather revel in the shroud of secrecy, whispering secrets that are delighted with their sense of mystery. But where human intrusion subsides, nature provides with earnest profundity; the stars shine bright in the clearing sky, and the crescent moon hangs with a desolate string, offering luminance nonetheless.

In the small room, there is only the ticking sounds of a typewriter and the shifting shadows of static objects that gain movement by the flickering fire of a candle.

Violet lies in her bed, shivering under the thin cover and observing. She can only see Lemony’s back and the dark impression of his form on the wall beside him. He taps the keys with great ardor that is unpronounced in his persona, and they protest loudly and incessantly. What could it be that he is writing? Is it an account that concerns her? Should she trust him?

She does not trust him.

But such specificities are made redundant when she lies so vulnerably mere feet away from him.

For the tenth time, she considers leaving him and setting off to find her siblings, but she is too wise to do so. Should she leave, where would she go? She is with no resources, be it information or nourishment, she has nothing. Despite his peculiar disposition, he does not seem set to harm her. If he is anything like his brother and sister, she can be certain that he never would.

But harm has befallen her by good people before. They never meant for it, but causality does not concern itself with the intents of those who perform the actions.

Her curiosity burns inside her head. She wants to know more about him. If only to relieve herself from this great discomfort and be able to shut her very tired eyes to sleep.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asks at last.

Lemony jolts, taking in a breath. So intrenched he was in his documentation, the vivid descriptions and raw emotions of stories he prefers to believe are fictional, that he forgot about being in the company of another person.

He turns to face her, and for a moment longer than what would be perceived as normal, he stares. His face betrays mild shock, eyes widening and tearing. The moonlight reflects off her face gently, making it glow, and her brown eyes are deep and inquisitive. Her burdens are many, but she warps them with the hands of an artist until what remains apparent is the beauty of wisdom, it radiates from her being, gently as to not overwhelm, but it cannot go amiss. She always does so.

She shifts slightly and furrows her eyebrows, “what is the matter?” Beatrice asks.

Beatrice?

No. Violet.

Lemony clears his throat and closes his eyes momentarily. “Nothing,” he says quietly, and as quickly as fascination claimed his countenance, grim dismissal takes its place, much akin to… disappointment?

Violet is considerably confused, and it seems it is the dominant emotion she feels towards this man. He stands from his seat and trudges towards the window, hands lapsed behind his back and his face solemn. He gazes far into the townscape until he surpasses it altogether and enters the world he actually inhabits. The world of dark contrition and ghosts from the past.

Lemony opens his mouth to speak, but before a word escapes his lips, he closes it again with dismissal to whatever he was intent on saying, and wets his lips.

“I made a promise,” he says.

Violet’s eyes snap in his direction, contrite and dazed, “a promise?” she says softly.

He nods slowly, remembering, seeing faces so vividly, “I don’t believe your parents have told you about me, but we were… colleagues,” something about the way he releases his utterance, so heavily and hurt, makes Violet suspect that there is more to it than he is indulging, but she does not press.

“We go long back, before you were conceived,” he continues, his voice distant, as if he has travelled to the times he speaks of. “We shared a vocation in an organization that smeared our lives indefinitely; whether we acknowledge its purpose as good or bad is of no relevance. What matters in this instance is its influence,” here, his voice quietens into a bereaved whisper, “and its influence would claim the lives your parents.”

Violet says nothing, and her face remains detached and grim, but she feels his words burning inside her heart.

“Your mother… she made me promise to look after any children she might beget,” he lowers his head, and Violet wishes to know what it is he would not disclose, “I do not contemplate letting her down. That is why I brought you here.”

“And if you have let her down?” utters Violet with a broken whisper. “I am one out of three of her children. What about Klaus and Sunny?” she continues, a tear escaping her eyes at the mention of her siblings. “You promised to take care of all of us, didn’t you? Why didn’t you save Klaus and Sunny? You have let her down.”

When Lemony turns at the heat of her painful assertions, he sees that she is not looking in his direction. She is hugging herself tightly, face downturned and eyes wide and tearful. He recognizes this expression because he has worn it too many times to count. She is inside her own mind, her own dark world, berating and chiding herself.

“You have let her down…” she whispers again.

For the first time in his life, Lemony assumes the role of the optimist, although he might not necessarily believe the words he utters. All he knows is that he cannot bear seeing Violet in her self-destructive pit, hurting beyond her physical injuries and the pain of separation from her loved ones.

“No,” he says gently, “you are simply the first one I have found.”

She looks up and he wants to cry when he looks into her eyes.

He averts his gaze.

“I have not let her down,” he finishes quietly and firmly.

Violet wipes a hand across her eyes and faces away, as if ashamed at her vulnerability. Crying in front of people— in this case, _strangers_ — is something she usually goes through great lengths to avoid; her emotions set aside in favor of logic. He does not seem to judge her, however. In her current state, fetal and weeping, he shows compassion towards her that has evaded his predilection thus far.

His words soothe her a little, and she allows them to sink in. She finds herself nodding, and desolately, she says, “I hope you are right, Mr. Snicket.”

Lemony sees her retreating into her covers, cocooning herself with a protective shield and shutting him out. From his documentation of the eldest Baudelaire, he knows that the Violet he has now witnessed is a well-guarded secret, shunned from prying eyes into hiding. The scared, tortured girl is buried deep within the confident, capable young woman, prevented from surfacing under strict control. But sometimes, even the most resolute of people are brought down to their knees.

Today, Violet faced a trial of gravity unprecedented before and she broke down under its crushing weight. Tomorrow, she will continue to carry the world atop her shoulders with an unaffected expression and a hand stretched out to help those who need her, never asking for help herself.

He lingers by her bedside for a while, feeling distraught and conflicted.

How he wishes he could be the help she so needs and so deserves. How he wishes he was as selfless as she.

They have both made the same promise to Beatrice Baudelaire. One of them withstood insurmountable suffering trying to protect it, and the other created an escape and called it vicarious striving. He knows that if either of them is deserving of chastisement, it is him.

Violet senses his hovering presence and she feels stifled, wishing he would leave her alone. The room is now very quiet, quiet enough to hear their individual breaths, and the candle has burnt out, sending the premises into complete obscurity.

The last words she hears before she blacks out and merges with night are a hushed admission of fears shared between the professed strangers.

“I hope so as well…”

 

* * *

 

Violet opens her eyes to warm sunlight. She finds herself overcome by deep resignation, quiet and numbing, it settles in her heart and relaxes her half-lidded eyes. It feels like floating. Last night’s outpouring of emotion proves to be useful, regardless of the subtle embarrassment that nudges her in the back of her mind.

Lemony is not there, but she didn’t expect him to be. With a look to her left, she sees a neatly written note and a sum of money on her pillow.

Pale fingers flip the note, and the words trail off from her lips softly, “have gone to attend some errands. Will be back when the sun meets the horizon…”

What a mystery this man is.

Violet realizes she still does not know a thing about him, and that their conversation last night merely succeeded in making him more enigmatic. Yet she shares a dwelling with him.

Her lips twist into a mirthless smile, sardonic and sad, yet bemused all the same. Her mother would not have been pleased at this arrangement.

Her bare feet lightly touch the cold of the wooden floor and she lifts herself with some difficulty from the bed, wincing all the while. The wounds are healing, but all too slowly.

With a glance from the window, she takes in a breath and decides to view this as an adventure. A town ostracized by others into isolation, scarcely touched by external influence; an innovation unique in every sense of the word. She notices the steam urging the gears into motion in a process made arduous by the untreated rust, but one that retains its grace all the same. The beauty here would be subliminal and not overt. Violet dislikes the too obvious in any case.

And so with her white, torn dress and cold bare feet, she walks the streets of Eldritch; a ghost in what is becoming a ghost town. The few townspeople glance her way with bewilderment and sometimes with scorn, but she acknowledges no beholder and looks about their forms, at the brick stoned buildings and their high chimneys.

Far in the distance stands a structure that surpasses its neighbors in altitude, stretching high as to escape the smoke from the funnels and reach the clouds of vapor. It is a clock tower.

Violet halts to take in its anatomy, admiring the details of the design. The complications are assembled into an undismountable whole, and even from afar, she can see how the cogs grind and turn, moving the hands of the clock with beautiful synchronicity.

A strange magnetic effect pulls her in its direction, her senses unaware of being moved, but rather surmising that the structure itself is moving towards her.

There comes a sudden disruption in this magnetic field and Violet finds herself repelled to the side by its exertion.

“Watch it, girl!” a gruff voice croaks, and a cane is raised threateningly in front of her face.

“I’m very sorry,” says Violet, declining her head politely, regardless of inculpability.

The man halts and reconsiders. He sizes her up, digging his indented cane into the cobbled street. Slowly, he leans in towards her face, a leather clad hand rising to brush a strand of dark hair from her porcelain face.

“If it is money you need, I think I have a way you can get some,” he slurs, foul breath of smoke and wine emanating with every syllable he enunciates.

Violet recoils backwards so quickly, she almost trips.

The wind strikes her with sharp needles as she runs against it, breath catching and labored. When she is certain she has escaped the man’s availed reach, she stops and takes greedy gulps of air, images from a past that feels so far behind her resurfacing in her mind.

_You are such a pretty girl. I will not dispose of you._

She dismisses them ardently.

The man is degenerate, Violet has no doubt about that, but she can follow his trail of reasoning. Her clothes are tattered and damaged, unfit for a worker of a respectable profession. But money has to be claimed from a source, and the mind ties the sight of a desolate, homeless-looking girl with prostitution.

She needs to buy new clothes.

Her hand withdraws from her pocket the money Lemony has placed for her, and she searches the stores around her until she finds a small parlor with different sets of attire on display. She chooses a simple black dress with a white blouse underneath; the collar of which is laced with a matching black ribbon. The kind vendor provides her with pardon when her money falls short on buying shoes; she is an elderly woman with no children of her own and great compassion for all creatures, instantly she is made sympathetic by the wretched state of the girl who entered her store.

When she exits the shop, donning clothes that are clean and comfortable, her head is held up higher and she feels more in tune with who she is— or maybe who she was? Violet is not sure.

Hunger is quick claim her every thought with nagging expediency, and whatever she planned to do is pushed to the margin. Her body is alarmingly weak, using up energy that it does not have. But where can she get food? She has used up all her money already on clothing, a decision that she is quickly regretting. How foolish of her not to account for that factor; nourishment tops the list of essentiality for survival, and she exchanged it for an object of vanity. Where is her logic that she prides herself on?

An embittered sigh escapes her and she bites her lip, trying to calm herself down.

No, she doesn’t feel like herself. Everything is wrong and nothing can fix anything.

Surrender whispers to her again with such allure, and she strains her ears to listen. Sunny is not there to tug on her dress with that smile she misses so much, and neither is Klaus, who would place a comforting hand on her shoulder. _We’re going to get through this_ , he would say, _we always do_.

They are not here. She is all alone. Survival is meaningless if she has no one to survive for.

But her mind speaks to her in a voice it has never used before.

_You are simply the first one I have found._

If there is any hope for finding her siblings, Violet will be damned if she gives up. Such selfishness on her part will not be forgiven.

She will have to return to the tavern and wait for Lemony to bring food.

When has she become so dependent on others?

Violet’s frustration towards herself rises to a peak, she clenches her eyes shut with great intensity, begging her thoughts to quieten. Must she torture herself if there is no one to do so?

What great irony it is to be able to manipulate and mould objects external to one’s being with the mere power of the mind, but not one’s own thoughts.

There is no escaping this morbid sense of self-hatred and embittered morale. Violet makes peace with this fact and returns to the place that is not her home.

 

* * *

**I enjoyed writing this one, I hope you enjoyed reading it. There is nothing straight forward about their thoughts and feelings, and it's like a journey I'm taking alongside them.**

**This chapter was inspired by "Song of the Surf" by No-Man.**

**Thank you for reading/ supporting. (:**

 


	4. Chapter 4

  
There is no clock to give an indication of the elapsed time in the dingy room, but if Violet’s senses are not mistaken, many hours have already passed. She sits by the window, watching the migratory journeys of birds that herald the coming of aching coldness and shortening days. With a wistful sigh, she silently wishes she could be among them. But such wishes have gained a heightened sense of juvenility when she was forcefully endowed with maturity that well exceeds her age.

Still, however…

Violet smiles lightly, _the nostalgic feeling of reminiscent dreams can never be outgrown._

She alternates between studying the details and intricacies of the landscape, and engaging her thoughts and worries. Every now and then, she is struck by a complete blackout in all sensations; there is the impression of a looming dullness and the feeling of no feelings at all. She swims in it so long as it engulfs her, resigned and calm, before the haze clears itself from her eyes and she can see again.

Then she would gaze far into the horizon, gauging the differentiation of colors and the changing position of the sun in the sky, mentally calculating the time left for its descent.

It has occurred to her to make a sundial using an electromagnetic rod, a metallic plate, and ink for inscription, but her heart that is too heavy and her hair that is too naked devastate her mind and retire it from thinking through the complicated details.

When her stomach issues a complaint of its own, she sighs and looks out the window again. The sun is moving ever so slowly towards the west, and the sky is gaining a brilliant crimson color that strikes out in beams from the assembling dark clouds.

_Parting birds, crimson sunsets, and turbulent weather. It must be November._

A rush of wind passes through with great urgency, shaking the branches of the desolate trees and enticing a forlorn song through them. Violet shivers and shuts the window, just when a big drop of rain hits her hand. Soon, the city is drenched with uncompromising showers and it darkens so very quickly, losing whatever abiding sunlight from the remainder of the day.

A sharp tapping alerts her and she turns towards the door, only to realize that the noise came from the window beside her. Confused, she surveys it, searching for the source of her alarm. It is difficult to make out its features at first, for it blends so perfectly with the darkness surrounding it, but with the impression of movement, she realizes that it is a bird sitting outside. A raven.

Violet cannot help the grin on her face as she reopens the window, allowing entry to the black bird. It steps in with an air of pride, notwithstanding its drenched state, and looks at her with its beady eyes.

“Hello,” she greets with curious affection and the raven ruffles its feathers, attempting to rid itself from the water. Stray droplets hit Violet, enticing a small laugh out of her.

“You came back,” she says, “I must say, it is a curious decision. This is a too bleak place to miss.”

The raven caws.

“Hold on,” she mumbles, retrieving her old dress. With the swift tug of an expert, the fabric is torn into two pieces. She wraps the smaller one around the shivering bird and proceeds to manipulate the remaining one, making a disgruntled heap that serves as a bed and a cover.

“Not my best work,” she admits sheepishly, “but it will do. You’ll need a dry place to sleep in, after all.”

Disregarding her efforts, the raven flies onto the table and agitatedly plods about it, its small head turning this way and the other. It then halts altogether before abruptly beginning to tap just below its edge, as if attempting to recover something. Violet frowns, placing the makeshift bed on the windowsill, and moves towards her friend.

“What is it?” she mumbles, leaning down to have a clear view of what it is that is so captivating. With her hand, she withdraws a rectangular piece of aged parchment sitting right between the crevice and the intramural of the table. It is concealing something within its folds, however. A photo.

Lemony must have left it there.

She sucks in a breath, heart racing in anticipation at the possibility of learning more about the enigmatic man. She looks in the direction of the door and strains her ears to hear any indication of his arrival, but there comes none.

Could it be of his siblings? A part of her hopes it is not.

It is the same part that hopes it is of the VFD.

When she takes it out, however, she discovers that it is not of all the VFD members, but of merely one.

A woman with fair complexion and dark hair. She is not much older than Violet; maybe a mere couple of years older, but the similarity between the two is striking. The main difference lies in the eyes; Violet’s are a dark brown, and the woman’s are a dark blue. Still, to the unaware observer, they could be siblings.

But they are not siblings. They are mother and daughter.

A gasp escapes Violet’s lips, and her mind registers approaching footsteps in the background. Quickly, she returns the photo beneath the table and flops onto her bed in a hasty movement that causes her to wince.

The door opens to reveal the grim mien of a tall, thin man drenched in rainwater and darkness. Lemony trudges in and his every step seems to be made with agony, his long coat producing wet streaks on the floor with every drop it discharges.

Violet studies him closely, eyes following his ungraceful strides that end when he collapses onto the chair, his head lying limply in his palms.

There follows the stern air of silence, stifling and tense, as she awaits a sign that the man is still alive and has not fallen to his death in the embrace of his hands. The raven that looms over him does not offer her ease, either.

“You need to take off your coat,” she finally says, quietly and hesitantly, “you will catch a cold.”

But he does not respond, nor does he move in the slightest.

Violet sighs, “Mr. Snicket…” she treads towards him slowly, a tentative hand rising to his shoulder. He flinches upon contact and she retrieves it quickly, resting it on her own forearm instead, “I’m sorry…” she mutters softly.

Lemony gets up and looks anxiously around the room, as if wishing for a space that would guarantee him solitude. Violet shrinks in her spot and lowers her gaze. She hates being a burden.

Slowly, he sheds the heavy material off his shoulders and deposits the wet heap nonchalantly. His hat soon follows, and Violet stares in bewilderment at the eyes reddened by tears into swelling. She feels a semblance of pity and concern towards him, her mouth opening to query him about the reason for his sorrow before closing dejectedly. It is no great revelation that Mr. Snicket values his privacy, and she understands that, really. She values her privacy as well. But the weight of all the questions propelling in her mind is agonizing.

Who is this man? And what does he have to do with her mother?

The raven caws and Lemony’s attention turns completely towards it. He regards the gaunt creature with dismay, eyebrows furrowed and frowning.

“How did it get in here?” he asks quietly.

Violet straightens her stance, “I let it in,” he turns his head towards her, and she at looks him levelly, “it was cold and raining and the raven had nowhere to go.”

Lemony considers, his eyes staring at nothing in particular, “yes…” he says with his distant tonality, “it was probably a good thing to do.”

Her stomach rumbles and she crosses her arms bashfully around it. Realization shows as a passing glint in Lemony’s eyes and he silently produces bread and slices of ham from his paper bag, and then much to her surprise, a rusted vessel and two ceramic bowls.

He hands the vessel to her, “can you fill this with water, please?”

She nods and takes it gingerly, washing it in the sink before filling it.

“At the end of the hallway, you will find a great hearth. You can use it to boil the water. There is a modest, counterfeit plantation along the alley, as well; you may pick the herbs to your liking,” he instructs numbly, keeping his back turned towards her and his hands busy.

“Which would you like?” she asks, her weary gaze centered on the back of his head.

“None for me, thank you.”

Violet stands rooted in her spot for a few moments, before leaving the small room. She is greatly perplexed and somewhat disheartened by the dismissive demeanor of the man that took her in on his own volition. If she is such a liability, why does he not release himself of all responsibility concerning her? It would certainly not be the first time for her.

The coal burns a deep orange that shimmers when she places the vessel atop it. Her hands rise to borrow heat from the fire that is paradoxically nonthreatening.

She is being unfair towards him. Childish, really. He is under no obligation to explain himself to her, and she shouldn’t expect him to do so. What remains factual is that he has helped her— possibly saved her, even— and that he is the best chance she has for finding her siblings. It is insignificant that the two of them stand on opposite sides of a gulf. A friend is not what she is seeking.

With a resolute nod, Violet plucks leaves and stems from a camomile shrubbery and carefully retrieves the steaming vessel.

She will be mature about this. Thanking the man for his troubles would be a nice start.

Her stride is even as she departs the warmth behind her into the begrudging cold, clouds of vapor forming and dissolving with her every breath. With her shoulder, she nudges the ajar door open.

“Mr. Snicket, I forgot to—“ but when she steps into the dimly lit room, it is only the raven that turns to her voice.

“… thank you,” she continues despondently. He is gone. And despite her former resolution, Violet cannot help the disappointment she feels.

She sighs, offering a sad smile to her small companion nonetheless. There rests upon the table a sandwich and a note. She does not read it.

The lightning provides with terrific luminance, only to deprive of it shortly, and the following thunder cackles through the premises with grim promise. Violet’s eyes widen momentarily and her heart skips a beat, but aside from that, she does not allow herself to feel fear towards the splendors of nature.

Instead, she fixates on the music given by the harmonic descent of rain and the beauty of the trees that dance to its cadence.

“And I am certainly grateful not to be out there right now…” she mumbles under her breath as she sits on the creaking chair and lifts the sandwich to her mouth, “don’t you agree?”

The raven pecks her forefinger lightly and she offers it the crust.

“Lightning is much like the Tesla coils, don’t you think? They are both in essence wireless transferences of energy…” she trails off. But slowly, her eyes lose focus and her lips twist in a frown.

“He is a fool for going out in such weather,” the raven scurries to the side when the plate is stirred by an abruptly falling sandwich. The young woman rises from her seat and begins to pace.

“Should he be struck by lightning, three hundred thousand Volts of energy would discharge in his body in a mere second. That is equivalent to being sentenced to death by electrocution more than a hundred times! How many death wishes does he have?!”

Her aggravated gait comes to a sudden halt and her head hangs in resignation.

“Am I that dreadful of a company?” she whispers.

There comes no answer.

For a while, Violet does not move. She stands there, collecting her thoughts and herself.

She holds the raven in her arms with care, laying it in its bed on the windowsill. Her food lies disregarded and her hunger becomes sedate. With a puff of breath, she quells the fire of the candle and sends the chamber to darkness.

Violet envelopes herself tightly under the covers, shivering as she becomes accustomed to their coldness. To her surprise, she sheds a few tears that are quickly abolished and denied.

She whispers to the sleeping bird, “I think I will call you Tesla.”

* * *

 

Hours pass, and the violent timbre of the storm soothes into serene stillness. The clouds begin to part, allowing the moon to glisten freely, bathing the land below it in silver brilliance.

Lemony turns the doorknob ever so slowly, careful not to wake the sleeping girl. His footsteps are hushed albeit heavy and dragging; his back aching very terribly from the position in which he was sat for hours on end in a most uncomfortable accommodation, but years of experience have subdued whatever complaints he would like to make.

His surrounding are reminiscent of every place he has inhabited over the span of a decade; indifferent and temporary, and always lacking in the necessary means for even the most basic of lives. But, the cold that he has grown accustomed to seems to have lessened.

He navigates his way in the dark, sifting through objects with meticulous heed and stripping from his public persona into the weary, miserable man that he is. After a moment’s hesitation, he passes by Violet’s bed and lifts the blanket to cover her more securely.

The signs of a troubled heart do not evade her even in her sleep; they warp and distort her features into distress.

Lemony exhales a shaky breath and raises a hand to gently brush her cheek.

This world holds no solace for people like them, but how he hates to be the imparter of news that guarantee misery.

When the light distorts and begins to manipulate the sights before him, he breaks himself from his trance and shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. He backtraces his steps until his knees hit the edge of his bed, and by the time his head touches the pillow, he is already asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

A distant noise in the background pulls Violet from her slumber. The sun is just rising, beaming in full effect after a long, dour night of rain. Her sleep ridden eyelids open slowly to take in a misty silhouette that is moving towards the exit, and the faint plea is out of her mouth before she fully comprehends it, “wait.”

Lemony halts but keeps his back to her, silently berating himself for his lack of stealth.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, inclining his head slightly to the side in an apologetic manner.

“But I’m glad you did,” says Violet, bringing her legs down the edge of her bed, “I want to come with you.”

His eyes widen before he shakes his head, “that is not a wise idea, miss Baudelaire. I’m afraid I must refuse.”

When he turns to face her, he sees that her gaze is mature and patient; resolution forming her disposition albeit expecting refusal.

He sighs and continues, “my every step is fraught with underlying danger, and my mere shadow is sought after. I have more enemies than I have acquaintances. I cannot subject you to anything of the like,” he attempts to sound as determined as she, but his voice quivers with vehemence, resurgent prospects coming to the forefront of his mind with plaguing intensity.

“But Mr. Snicket,” her voice is calm and rational, “I can say the same about myself.”

Lemony sighs. He knows he holds no control over her, and if she wants to be actively involved in seeking her siblings, can he really blame her? But the reasons for his dreads are of a more personal, selfish nature. He has always been a solitary investigator who took refuge in knowing that while his form can be glimpsed from afar, he cannot be really seen. The inquisitive eyes of Violet Baudelaire are a too painful reminder that his undertakings have a real effect on other people. Can he really withstand such pressure?

He risks looking into those very eyes and knows that he cannot. Nor can he truly deny her a request.

Violet looks at the window and sees that it is opened, and Tesla is nowhere in sight. She spares a contemplative moment in which she realizes that the raven is as mysterious as the man standing before her.

They walk alongside each other; separated by a few feet’s distance and an abyss of two different journeys of the mind. There is a curious harmony between them, however; a synchronicity in the steps taken and the haunted impression in their eyes.

Lemony walks ahead doggedly, as if knowing all the routes that diverge from the cobbled road. Violet allows her eyes to wonder, absently engaging her thoughts and spirit of enquiry.

Their eyes never meet. They are as strangers who happen to have the same path; each minding their own preserve, never prying on the other’s. Shadows fall upon them in obscurity, and gazes of passersby take them in, spying for a peculiarity that is not overt in their appearance, but is exuded nonetheless.

Violet gets to see the world as Lemony does; a plethora of hazed faces too muddled for any form of kindness to be discerned on their features, and objects that come and go in haste until they lack any clear distinction between their components. This is the world _en masse_ as an enemy.

Every now and then, they would pause and Lemony would put forth a series of enquiries to disgruntled citizens, who would proceed to scowl, deny and walk away. Violet grows to find the process wearisome, but sees that her companion is all too accustomed to the jeers and the overall sense of hopelessness.

“Novels make the work of an investigator sound a lot more thrilling,” she mumbles to herself.

To her surprise, Lemony quips with a faint chuckle, “they also make misery sound romantic.”

“A virtue of the wise,” says Violet with a smile.

“I think it a morbid sense of denial on the writer’s part;” he says, grim yet again; “a desire to add an aspect to reality that does not exist intrinsically in it.”

She turns her head towards him, ”do you do that, Mr. Snicket?”

But he only offers her a sad smile and they walk on.

The meal they have is sparing at best, just enough to keep them going without feeling the impact of gravity too keenly. Every now and then, Lemony steals a glance at Violet and marvels at her unwavering dedication to her siblings. Her face is riddled with tokens of exhaustion and her body suffers the effects of malnutrition, but she keeps going without making the smallest of complaint, brown eyes searching and attentive.

He feels like a conniver.

He withholds information from her; information that is pivotal to their search of the missing Baudelaires. Uncertainty of the source’s authenticity poses as the crux of his reticence; why would he strike fear into her heart that is already too leaden with despair? It is merely the basic maxim that every researcher has engraved in their mind; _never draw conclusions from a source unless certain._

Certainty is meant to be derived by empirical means. But Lemony’s intuition is more ardent and rather prone to impatience; it draws onto meanings before the external world’s sensory endowment.

Somehow, he knows that it is true. He might deny it, and use this denial to justify leading the eldest sister into abysses of faux value, but he knows it.

How could he ever communicate that to her?

_He is nothing but a coward._

Lemony walks ahead with tightly shut eyes, his steps gaining momentum with the rising intensity of his thoughts.

His mind projects the face of a beautiful woman who’s very close to his heart, and it clenches.

Is it possible that he has indeed failed her? Has he desecrated her only wish and his promise?

His reprieve halts his steps, as if struck by all the implications they hold. Violet does not seem to notice the manifestation of his inner turmoil, although she, too, stops just just a few feet in front of him, midst the atrophying pillars of what used to be the entrance to a castle of humble proportions.

The rays of the setting sun land gently on her face to illuminate the awe that is inspired by the rich engravings on the stones and the sophisticated swerve of every crevice that separates elegant inscriptions, written in a language she does not comprehend.

Lemony allows himself the distraction and takes in the structure before him with equal fascination, although perhaps from a different viewpoint.

“Isn’t it peculiar that this place should withstand the curse of time and various destructive elements, yet somehow retain its beauty?” he says distantly.

Violet glances his way before continuing her inspection; tentative fingers rising to caress the ancient words on a pillar, “I think it makes perfect sense. Shouldn’t beauty be adaptive?”

He stands unmoving for a moment, lost again in his thoughts, “do you think it loses something along the way?”

She shrugs, “should it lose something, it will gain another. What truly matters is the concept behind it; the idea,” her eyes gain a glint and they travel further than her senses can take her. “It is like a system of deduction, in a way, with integral components that aid every effect that goes on to become a cause. It’s too sturdy to be broken by superficial blows. Do you know what I mean?”

“Its inner composition does not collapse, and so it gives the impression of endurance,” he suggests, and she nods. “To the outside observer, its beauty persists, albeit in a different form…” his voice trails off before he faces her, “but what about the structure itself?”

Violet furrows her eyebrows, tilting her head to the side, “how do you mean?”

“This impression of beauty and endurance is for the benefit of the observer. What does this place think of all the change it was struck with? Can it reconcile its authentic nature with it, or is it suffering in earnest?” he says.

“I don’t really know,” she admits after a pause. She raises her head and turns slowly in her spot, assimilating the form and design of the antiquated castle, and a thoughtful smile rises to her face, “but don’t you think that adds to the intrigue?”

“Think of all the ideas that were left to fester with the abandonment of its people,” she continues, her voices gaining a dreamy undertone, “all the potential for innovation that couldn’t be realized at that time still resides within these walls; in rejected ideas and inspirations, in works of art unseen, in literature unread; it is all here, waiting to be acknowledged.”

Lemony smiles despite himself and decides to engage her imagination, “perceive being able to witness the events that have unfolded here with your mind’s eye.”

With genuine curiosity, she asks, “do you mean by imagining?”

He shakes his head, “not quite. There exists a theory in paranormal studies that suggests that all objects and places have energy fields that can be sensed by a special kind of people, who would proceed to tell the tale of the object with immaculate accuracy upon contact therewith. Joseph Buchanan termed it psychometry. He said, the past is entombed in the present. The world is its own enduring monument; and that which is true of its physical, is likewise true of its mental career.”

Violet considers for a moment, “that sounds like a fascinating theory. I would much like to believe it.”

“But the logical mind refuses it?” he says.

She smiles and quietly says, “the logical mind seeks further inspection before deciding whether to accept or refuse it.”

Lemony averts his gaze and walks about, “I believe in it,” he stops in front of the doorway and traces its metallic handle, “I find it inane that great depths of emotions can be exuded only to be tarnished upon conveyance. They must leave an impression; a semblance of the creation that roamed about and touched upon the place.”

“Isn’t that what books and paintings are for?” Violet says.

“And yet we know of suffering that predates the invention of words, or any form of expression for that matter, by millennia. It is there, left for the intrinsic perception to catch it,” he mumbles.

She steps beside him with a small grin, “Mr. Snicket, are you a psychometrist?”

His lips twist slightly upwards mirthlessly, but his eyes face the ground below him, “no, miss Baudelaire. I am merely a pretentious romantic,” and he turns his back to her, walking away. “I don’t believe we will find any helpful lead here, despite the place’s external appeal,” he mumbles.

Violet blinks, processing the sudden change in demeanor. She gazes up the towering structure with a curious frown, “but doesn’t an investigator inspect all places?” she mutters before turning to catch up with the speeding man.

She is definitely not lacking in mental capabilities. She can tell that Lemony is hiding something.

But what?

* * *

 

Thank you to all those who read and who showcased their support. Your feedback greatly urges me to continue. :D


	6. Chapter 6

The rushing water halts and shivering feet step into the ceramic tub, cautiously, one by one. Violet relaxes at the therapeutic caress of the steaming water; it touches her skin that is clenched against the cold and marred by goosebumps, and eases it to relaxation. The ceiling above her is molded and its paint is peeling. The rusting machinery that is responsible for all the thermal endowments of energy in the tavern hum and croak endlessly. If she strained her ears, she would also hear the running rodents in the vents. Slowly, she slips lower, until her dark hair splays across the water like night-kissed waves and her breathing forms bubbles that are soon abated.

Stillness. She hears stillness and it is very loud. It supplies her with clarity—the type that withdraws you from the sensory world until you can relive whatever memory you had tucked and stored in the caverns of your mind. But she doesn’t choose the imageries that play against her closed eyelids like a movie; they force their way into her perception, and they are warmer than the water that engulfs her.

_Sunny had set her eyes on her mother’s ancestral cuckoo clock. Its placement was just by the junction that separated the library from the hallway, quite far for the limited reach of a one year old baby, but she was not to be swayed by her disadvantageous height. She implored her brother, who sat nearby in his armchair with a book placed on his lap, to fetch her the intricate object, though Klaus was rightfully hesitant. Eventually, he had caved in to his baby sister’s wishes and credited her curiosity as harmless. He went to retrieve the clock, only to find that even he could not reach it. With the added height of a chair, he stretched his arm, touching it but just barely. When he finally managed to hold it, his legs caved in and he fell, bringing down the ancient clock alongside him. It broke with a painful crash._

_That was the story that the youngest Baudelaires told their sister as they held the fragments of the clock. Violet bit her lip and looked at the object, then at her siblings._

_“Can you fix it?” said Klaus apprehensively._

_She peered left and right, gauging the quietude of the house and determining that her parents were nowhere in sight. With a smile, she said, “come along.”_

_With Sunny tucked securely in his arms, Klaus followed his elder sister into her room. The light streamed in plentifully and the curtains danced along the breeze, throwing shadows of the patterns they adorned on the desk below them. There were devices, invented and bought readily, of all shapes and sizes. Violet’s last venture lay bare in the middle, its sculpture dissected to showcase cogs and gears. A sketch of an idea was hung nearby. It took inspiration from her favorite inventor, Nikola Tesla._

_She placed the clock on the desk after making room for it and extracted her ribbon from her pocket, lifting her hair swiftly and tying it. “Well, the pendulum is definitely broken. I can restore the functioning of the device, but it wouldn’t be quite as efficient without the pendulum.”_

_“Yes, I’ve read about it,” said Klaus distantly, his eyes glazing over as he recalled the details. “It’s a timekeeping element. It swings with specific intervals and regulates the speed of the clock. The clock would be completely out of synch without it,” he lamented._

_“Nova?” suggested Sunny, meaning ‘can you make a new one?’_

_“Thankfully it’s not hard to make a pendulum,” said Violet. “All I need is a weight and a rod.” She scanned her room thoughtfully, mumbling, “I can make a rod with the needed measurement…” She turned to her siblings. “Can you get me something that would serve as a weight? Anything would do. But I think it would be better if it had the general appearance and size of the original one, so that mother wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. I’ll begin working on the clockwork.”_

_“Kapish!” said Sunny, and Klaus grinned. They returned after a while, with Klaus holding something rather sheepishly in his right hand. Violet was now working on the rod, but she raised her eyes to appraise them._

_“Did you find something?” she said._

_He held out his hand, opening it slowly. “This one looked most like the original weight.” It was one of their mother’s gemstones. Their father had brought it to her during one of his trips to Africa. “Mother never takes it out,” he said, rather unconvincingly. “In fact I don’t believe she would notice it went missing at all. It was kept in a dusted box on top of her dresser.”_

_Violet blinked. “Well… we’re getting in trouble one way or the other, right?”_

_They all shared a grin._

_The clock was restored into impeccable working fashion. The pendulum swung back and forth steadily, and the weight glinted brilliantly when the light hit it. The three children looked at it with a sense of relief, though Sunny’s interest in it was piqued again._

_Klaus gave it to her with a smile. “Here you go, Sunny. But no biting!” To that, Sunny gave a four-toothed grin._

_Violet sat on her knees on the ground and leaned her elbows on the desk, resting her chin atop them as she inspected the beautiful clockwork closely. “It’s called a harmonic oscillator—you know, the pendulum and its swinging movement,” she added upon the confused look on Klaus’s face._

_“How does it work?” he questioned, sitting down and mimicking his sister’s pose._

_Regardless of how well-read Klaus was, physics was Violet’s domain, and she was delighted when she was able to share her knowledge with her brother for a change. “When you take it out of its position of equilibrium, gravity aids it by giving it a restoring force, proportional to the displacement,” she explained. “It rocks back and forth between potential and kinetic energy.”_

_Klaus hummed and touched the pendulum carefully, holding it at one end, then letting go. “It always seeks to return to equilibrium.”_

Violet raises her body from the depths of the water, the memory rinsing off alongside the droplets. The air is cold and needling now, and she finds her throat parched and her eyes stinging with tears, though her face is just as impassive. It always seeks to return to equilibrium. Though the force added by the winding key forbids it from ever reaching it. The tears descend. She misses Klaus. She misses Sunny. She misses Beatrice. But most of all, she misses the feeling of naive normalcy, back when her parents were alive and well, and when security was felt just upon the touch of her mother’s hand or the resounding laughter of her father. She misses it all so much.

A sharp succession of knocks breaks her reverie. She starts and sucks in a breath, looking apprehensively at the door. “Yes?”

“Miss Baudelaire,” Lemony’s voice is shaky but brittle with haste. “I know where your brother is.”

Violet’s heart leaps to her throat. She swears she could even taste it. The sweetness of reunion and the bitterness of the succeeding separation. Both sensations impose themselves on her, but she doesn’t contemplate them at all. Not when all her nerves are screaming and imploring her to take action. She quickly exits the tub, her muscles shaking and tingling, and puts on her clothes haphazardly, uncaring of how her wet hair clings uncomfortably and soaks the fabric. She swings the door open, and finds that Lemony’s usually melancholy face mirrors her own. Wide-eyed and mouth agape. Skin pale with shock and reddened with anticipation.

“Where is he?” she finds herself asking. Her voice was alien to her ears.

“London,” he says curtly and shuffles to collect his typewriter and whatever few belongings he had, stuffing them in his briefcase. “We take a steamer to Scarborough Harbor, then a train to London. We go now.” He turns to her when he is finished. “Do you have anything to take with you?” But she is already rushing down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

The steamer coughs its toxic burden onto the clouded sky and begins its journey with a jerk. Lemony doesn’t allow himself to breathe until then. He rests his elbows on the railing and appraises the town of Eldritch with grimness to which his face took no trouble in morphing its contours. Violet stands beside him, but she is too anxious and fidgety to be still. Her hands toy with the cuffs of her dress and she shuffles her feet too frequently.

“Mr. Snicket,” she says at last, a bit nervously. “What of Sunny and Beatrice?”

Lemony swallows and looks down. “I was only notified of the whereabouts of Klaus. It’s no cause for grief, however. Not yet.” His last words are spoken in a whisper. Violet notes that optimism didn’t come naturally to him at all.

“It’s just…” she begin and hesitates. Taking in a breath, she continues, “if there was one thing that kept my mind at ease, it was that they had each other. But to know that they had separated…”

“Miss Baudelaire,” he says gently. “Your siblings are strong and capable. They will survive, much as you did.” Her silence hangs with the impression of skepticism, so he adds as lightheartedly as is possible for him, “if anything, for a relentlessly unfortunate group of people, you also prove to be the most fortunate. Death would have inevitably claimed a normal person from the very first disaster you were subjected to.” Leave it to him to be increasingly morbid in his attempt at lightheartedness. He shuts his eyes in quiet frustration.

“You’re right,” she says, much to his surprise. “We’ve survived this long. It wouldn’t make sense for us to die so suddenly.”

“If you ascribe to such philosophy…” he mutters. She must think it convenient for him to be a nihilist, for she says nothing. Instead, he is answered by a non-human caw. He blinks in surprise and turns in her direction, only to find that the black raven from before is perched faithfully on her shoulder. “What is it doing here?”

“His name is Tesla,” says Violet, raising a finger to stroke its feathers. “He came when he saw us leaving.”

“And you saw it fit to take him along?”

“He’s my friend, Mr. Snicket. You don’t leave your friends behind.”

“I suppose not.” He blinks again and leans away from the creature that looks at him with unabashed intensity. “It’s simply that ravens and their crow counterparts make me—” Tesla ruffles its feathers and pecks the air in his direction. Lemony takes a step back. “—uneasy.”

Violet chuckles quietly. She remembers Uncle Monty and her own unease at the slithering reptilians. “I think you’ll find that he’s more afraid of you than you are of him, Mr. Snicket,” she says.

Lemony glances at the creature suspiciously. He notices how its coal black eyes have a glint that endows it with a sense of vitality that does little to resemble the death that he had come to associate it with. There is no true ill-intention in its little heart. And that much cannot be said about a great number of humans.

When the two reach the Scarborough Harbor, it is already late in the night. They move with agility that is not necessarily mandated, but learned and perfected nonetheless. They are two shadows in the night; growing on stained walls and shrinking on cobbled grounds, their contents obscured and elusive. Lemony ushers Violet into a compartment in the train and is quick to close the doors, opening his coat to allow the hiding bird a level of freedom. Tesla flies across the small space and regains its place on Violet’s shoulder, pecking at her cheek affectionately.

“You will have to be quiet, Tesla,” she whispers, caressing the soft feathers.

Lemony’s eyes, though concealed by his hat, are trained on the moving landscape outside his window. “An associate will meet us by Blackfriars Bridge. We will then be taken to a safe place—Val’s Foundation of Delegates. It is there that we expect to find your brother.”

“I thought that Hotel Denouement was the last safe place?”

“It was,” he says gravely. “But after it’s destruction, the remaining volunteers had to find a new place where it is possible to take shelter, exchange information, and play the accordion.”

Violet swallows. “So the VFD saved him. I suspect it was a recent development. If it had happened early on, you would have known, right?”

“You’re… half right about that,” says Lemony carefully. “He was found by a volunteer in an obscure hospital whose motto is ‘death seeketh every soul, and every soul is sought by death’. Putting pleonasms aside, it was very much believed that Klaus was… well, dying.” He clears his throat. “He was in a coma, and his vital functions were failing. Quite unexpectedly, however, he regained consciousness. He was then tended to by my colleagues and taken into safety.”

Her voice is shaky when she speaks. “And when was this?”

“Three weeks ago.” At her incredulous reaction, he raises both hands to calm her and proceeds to explain, “every decision has to be calculated and risk-free. Trusting in one another has become decidedly more difficult over the last couple of years. These things rightfully take time, miss Baudelaire, and it’s only to guarantee that no harm will befall any volunteer. You understand that, don’t you?”

Violet takes in a deep breath and holds it until she calms. Her eyebrows are furrowed and her gaze is downturned. “I don’t like this,” she whispers. “I can’t help thinking that there was an ulterior motive to saving him. The fact that they refused to give us any information for three weeks stretches the imagination.”

He considers her wording and decides that it makes him uncomfortable. Regarding her with an air of suspicion, he says, “the imagination is stretched when lacking knowledge. You’re still to be educated in the workings of VFD and its ethics. But for now, I urge you to trust them on the account of my word. Your brother would have definitely died if not for them.”

“And what’s the price to pay for their generosity?” she mumbles a bit crossly.

Lemony finds it difficult not to feel affronted. The VFD is his life’s investment. A criticism to the organization is akin to a direct attack on him. “It’s not a self-profiting organization, miss Baudelaire. We seek to salvage whatever justice that presides in a world conquered by blindness and narcissistic gain. We quell the fire where it is started.”

“It’s a lot easier when the fire is literal, isn’t it? But when it’s figurative, how do you know that the fire is not imagined? How do you know that you’re not the one who started the fire?”

He flinches visibly. “That’s not—” He halts. Snapping at her would do no good. Looking at her, he sees a young girl who has had to come to terms with losing all her family over and over again. She is terrified and skeptical, and it wouldn’t be normal for her to be anything otherwise. “I know that you haven’t had the best of experiences with many volunteers,” he whispers. “But don’t blame the organization as a whole. It is its true intention to do good in the world, regardless of its fallibility.”

There is no word for the way she regards him now. Her expression is claimed by weary surrender and… pity? But why would she pity him?

The train comes to a halt, and whatever inquiry Lemony wishes to make is pushed aside. He encloses Tesla yet again in his coat and takes the briefcase in his hand. The train station still buzzes with life, regardless of the late hour, but when they exit it altogether, the quietude is tangible. Only a few civilians walk the streets of London, and most are men, their top hats and long coats making them easily distinguishable. Violet can’t but engage her spirit of enquiry. She looks around curiously at the passing figures and the closed shops, and determines that not only is it less bleak than town they had just departed, but also a lot more advanced. There are posters announcing the experimental display of new scientific technology, and others advertising theatrical plays. A carriage passes them by quickly, and Lemony holds Violet by shoulders instinctively and moves her to the side, even though it was at least ten feet away from them. She smiles at him slightly.

Beyond the hovering mist, they make out the general inclinations and swerves of Blackfriars Bridge. There is a tall figure looking over the River Thames, his silver hair serving as a lighthouse for the two. They reach him from behind, and Violet gives Lemony an apprehensive look.

“I didn’t realize this was a sad occasion,” says Lemony, and the words cause her spine to tingle.

The figure turns, and she is struck to find out that his face isn’t of an old man, but rather of a boy who was at most a year older than she. His eyes are just as silver, and there plays an enigmatic smile on his lips.

“The world is quiet here.”


	7. Chapter 7

The night is a cloak and the fog is its adornment. Violet doesn’t mind that, however. It is as though her state of mind had been brought into manifestation. The senses strain to take hold of whatever information there is to garner, and by the virtue of limited sight, her hearing is amplified and stretched to accommodate with great clarity the subtle pitter-patter of light rain and the stealthy footsteps of the two men beside her, but those are not the object of her focus. Her heartbeat is deafening. Certainly they can hear it. Can they hear it? But that doesn’t matter. The mysterious volunteer is taking them to her brother. She is going to see Klaus.

Then why is she so apprehensive?

That question is redundant. She knows the cause. There are many words she would associate with herself, and ‘lucky’ isn’t one of them. There remains a tingling sensation that something is not right. It could very well be the outgrowth of unfavorable experience or the elusiveness of higher intuition. All she knows is that she can’t be made happy with anticipation, nor eager with expectations. She needs to maintain her rationale. She needs to not let her guard down.

Lemony at her side seems to be just as ill at ease. His mouth is pressed in a thin line and there is a slight crease between his eyebrows, and with Tesla perched on his shoulder, his customarily quaint demeanor gains an austere feature. Every now and then, he would gaze at their guide with suspicion intrinsic to his being, but while that suspicion usually serves to secure himself alone, it now expands to encompass Violet in its defensive hold. Just as she entertains that thought with slight bewilderment, he gathers her hand tentatively in his and places it on the crook of his elbow without uttering a word. She doesn’t speak either, but acknowledges the gesture with a small squeeze. It is comforting not to be alone. Even if she is the sole inhabitant of her less than amicable mind, the presence of a friend is felt through the haze of thoughts like a warm touch in a frigid day.

By the specific directionality with which they now move, Violet knows that they are getting closer. The path is obscure and ominous, with many inclinations and twists to be navigated dexterously. It seems like a place her mother would have warned her against.

But her mother is not here.  
  
The status of maternity has been passed on to her, and the solemn duty towards her siblings and adoptive daughter quells and banishes thoughts of self-interest.

“Klaus…” she whispers, if only to urge herself to keep going. Her grip tightens on Lemony’s elbow.

Their guide makes a halt before an atrophying metallic sign whose words have been wrought by rust and mold into incoherency. Neither Violet nor Lemony are taken aback by the less than welcoming entrance—they are unused to anything other. A gloved hand reaches to the door and nudges it open, and the illumination from within colors their surroundings with a warm gold that expands and grows before being lost to the obsidian depths of night. There is warmth that tickles their frozen cheeks and beckons their tired limbs. The smell of something sweet and substantial entices their starving stomachs.

The volunteer extends a courteous arm, gesturing for them to enter. Violet returns the smile on the boy’s face with hesitant bashfulness and proceeds, with Lemony, grim as ever, following closely behind.

“It is preferable that you should remain near me, miss Baudelaire,” he says quietly.

She nods absent-mindedly, her eyes already seeking a bespectacled face and a dark mass of hair. Her gaze is too busy to make stops that acknowledge the distrustful looks directed towards her and Lemony; she hardly registers the faces of the people dispersed around the room, but to her dismay, the object of her search is nowhere to be found.

With a frown, she says, “where is he?” Her head swishes in her companion’s direction. “Mr. Snicket, where’s Klaus?”

“As the tedious adage goes, patience is a virtue, miss Baudelaire,” he mumbles, though his eyes carry bemusement of their own as they scan the room. He turns to look for their escort, but finds that he is gone.

“So you’re the infamous Baudelaire,” declares a voice with a gruff undertone. He approaches with languid sluggishness, making him seem highly inebriated. The smell of smoke hits her nostrils immediately.

Struggling to keep herself from waving the rancid smell from her immediate field, she replies quietly, “there are three of us, sir. Four, now.”

The man rolls his eyes. “But you lot are like a single body, eh? What’s it like losing three of your limbs?”

Violet flinches but not visibly, her face impassive and her posture rigid.

“I can immediately discern that you are not a volunteer,” says Lemony curtly. “What business have you here?”

Slowly, the man’s piercing gaze moves to take in Lemony. An ironic smile erupts on his face. “Ah! The retired writer who just wouldn’t retire. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Ardy! You can’t be rude to our guests!” Despite the reprimand, the woman steps in with a grin on her face, linking an arm around his neck. “He’s a new recruit,” she explains. “Still getting the hang of things.”

“I have not known it to be a habit for the VFD to recruit the ruffians and delinquents—not since the incident with Olaf and those who followed him.”

“Ruffians and delinquents? Let me guess, you compensate for your sense of inferiority with your fancy wording, am I right?” His smirk is infuriatingly smug. Lemony can’t face him anymore.

He turns away, muttering under his breath words that Violet cannot make out. Despite his previous ardent defense of the VFD, she suspects that he holds judgements towards the organization, too, deep in his heart. Perhaps that is why he became defensive when she criticized it; he didn’t want his disinclinations to resurface in his mind.

“Come along, miss Baudelaire,” he then says. “Let’s find your brother.” He takes her arm again and links it through his own. His exasperation shows in his hasty steps, yet his visage hides beneath a shadow cast by his hat.

“You won’t find him here!” the man calls tauntingly. Both of them ignore him.

Violet is uncomfortable with being hauled, but doesn’t truly acknowledge her discomfort. “Isn’t it wise to ask someone?” she says. “We came here on the account that some volunteers found Klaus.”

“The person who supplied me with this information is not to be found…” he mutters, halting abruptly. A gleam passes his eyes. “Of course…”

She is completely accustomed to being confused by him, and so when he moves to a secluded corner, she simply follows, trying to keep her building aggravation subdued.

He surveys the wall long enough before muttering a satisfied ‘aha!’. Much to her surprise, his form disappears when he steps forwards and then sideways. He remerges then, a hand appreciating the architecture of the structure. “An optical illusion to divert attention from the passageway,” he explains.

And indeed, when Violet inclines her head to the side, she makes out a change in contrast between the walls that appear to be continuous, but are actually parallel. Her heart skips a beat and she moves quickly to enter after Lemony. At first, there is only darkness. Their eyes struggle to adjust before spying a distant light at the end of the hallway. He proceeds with heedful acuity that Violet cannot afford to possess. She marches in its direction, ignoring the exasperatedly hushed calling of her name. She reaches her arm at full length closely before arriving at her destination, pushing the door open completely without abating her speed. Once she is in, she looks around, heart palpitating and eyes wide.

“Klaus?” she calls, walking about the room that is interspersed with many beds that resemble those of a low-budget establishment. “Klaus!”

“Miss Baudelaire!” reprimands Lemony as he enters. “Miss Baudelaire, you are—!”

“He’s not here!” she exclaims, eyes wild and emotive. “He’s not here, Mr. Snicket, Klaus is not here!”

“I never said—”

“You said your colleagues found him! You said he was in London—in this place, Val’s Foundation of Delegates, that’s what you said!” her voice quivers as it rises beyond its normal volume and her limbs thrash desperately with so much contained desperation. He dares to look in her eyes and finds betrayal and distrust. It hurts him. He is surprised by that much.

He opens his mouth, ready to defend himself and rectify the situation, but she charges forward in a sudden move. For a moment, he thinks she is going to hit him, and so readies himself for the assault, yet such a blow does not come, and he is instead met with a cold wave of air as she runs past him.

“Miss Baudelaire!” he calls.

“Leave me be!”

Bemused faces appraise the young woman as she rushes through them, bumping and colliding into persons and objects but not stopping for a second. She only halts when tender snowflakes touch her cheek and melt in wet trails. She looks up at the sky, a scream brewing in her heart but refusing to leave her throat. Her lips sting against the pressure of her teeth, and her fists are curled with pent-up frustration. She feels like she might explode. But the frozen air is so tranquil around her that it works to deafen her senses. A pained, tearful moan escapes her at last and she crumbles to the ground, sobbing silently and bitterly.

Lemony stands silently behind her. His eyes are pools of sorrow whose depth extends for decades of weeping and heartache. He understands her pain. He understands that she should hate him. He understands her so very well that it disconcerts him. Because that means she understands him as well. He would not wish that upon anyone.

What is there for him to do?

He inclines his head downwards, his throat constricting. For a person as well versed in misery as he, he doesn’t know how to give solace; how to reassure and comfort against the demons of the mind and the parasites of the heart. To do so is to lie. There is no reassurance, and no comfort; only the grim acceptance of what is.

And so he stands still, hearing her tears wash her thin frame away, feeling her fears meld into the atmosphere until they touch him and he can see them with his mind’s eye.

He waits until she is finished crying; when she sits with slumped shoulders and silent nerves. Then does he move towards her, sitting on the accumulating snow that drenches his coat and looking straight ahead. He doesn’t need to see her face to know of the hollow expression it holds.

Words have no meaning in the context of loss. How he would hate to say that he is sorry. How helpless a response it is. He hates it because he _is_ helpless, and it _is_ his fault. His fault that he didn’t save them from the very beginning; that he allowed things to escalate to the point where children were no longer children; that in a way, he betrayed his promise to Beatrice. Should he offer his sorries, his soul would be exhausted and his body expired long before he was able to apologize for everything that he has done.

A slight tremble catches his eyes. He looks sideways to see that Violet is shivering.

He doesn’t feel he has the allowance to hold her. Not when he is so corrupt. When he’s the cause of her dejection.

But his self-hatred is selfish, and it’s not truly fair to have her suffer all the more at its end.

Tentatively, he reaches a hand towards her until his arm surrounds her shoulder. She stiffens at first, holding her breath, but reluctantly allows the touch with heedful slowness. The proceedings are mutual, then, begotten by a too-human instinct. She rests her head against his chest, and he envelops her securely.

They sit in silence, shivering and unintelligibly observing the descent of snowflakes. The raven, perched on a lamppost before them, regards them with a solemn air, its inky blackness contrasting with the white of snow. Both their frames are frail and weary; their souls dark and laden; and their hearts discordant with mixtures of despair and an ever-present, painful hope. This hope is the source of the rejuvenating pain that strikes them like a knife in the back.

Lemony’s conscience tingles and prods, his mind battling a manifesting image of Beatrice, painted by memories and association. And Violet’s mind berates her, recalling her to all the times she trusted and fell and suffered.

But the wintry night is long and cold, and everything is asleep. Violet and Lemony want their thoughts to become sedate alongside the present tranquility, just for once. Just for once, they want to be free from suffering and anguish. Just this once.

And so, she closes her eyes, and he cords his fingers through her hair. She never knew a touch could convey so much sadness. Chancing a glance at him, Violet finds tears confined in his eyes, giving them a most vulnerable mien. She looks down again.

The sound of crunching snow retrieves them to the real world, but it is the voice that causes them to look up, eyes rapidly widening and mouths falling agape.

“ _Violet_?” The voice bears just as much astonishment.

“Klaus…” she whispers.

And all forms of premeditated action disappear as the two siblings enclose each other in desperate grips.

* * *

 

**It has been a while since I updated, and when I finally do, I return with drama and angst. But I suppose that you, dear readers, like drama and angst, otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this story. (:**   
**The reason of my tardiness is due to my enrollment in university (I’m studying biotechnology & genetic engineering, which is as fascinating and complex as it sounds), and a slight loss of interest in the story. But the reviews revitalize that interest, and so I thank you all, dear reviewers, for urging me to continue. **


	8. Chapter 8

Lemony has been a spectator to the lives of the Baudelaires for so long. He has seen their interactions, unadulterated and without filter time and time again; heard their whispered fears and their idle imaginings for a better future; felt their love and felt their pain with such an intensity that caused him to quake and sob, as though he and they were one. As though he was living through his trauma again, but from a different point of view. His was a vicarious presence. The power of words mediated their story and carried his soul to wherever they were. There was no dilution to the experience. It was raw and it was real.

What great irony it is that now that he resides so very close to them in his flesh and bone that the distance between them is felt.

He cannot connect to them. The physical proximity is meretricious and taunting. He can reach his hand and touch their frames, but their minds—their thoughts, their feelings, their beings—are so far away.

His mind falls at dissonance, and his soul is stirred. Reality and fiction have always had a vague impression of a line to separate them; but that line can only be witnessed when viewed from afar. He, however, lives and dwells within it.

Hushed words are uttered during the night. They spread and disperse with a purpose to confuse, never pointing to the direction of their enunciation. The only clue to their source is the light bestowed by a frail candle. Lemony treads softly on the wooden floor, peering from the doorway at the two siblings. They are huddled near each other, with the candle sitting on the table before them, its flame shivering when struck by their utterances. But they are so quiet. He cannot make out the meaning behind them, despite his experience in reading lips or his strengthened hearing. They must have developed skills of their own, however. Ones to which he hasn't been privy.

One thing is certain. They are at a disagreement. Emotion is the one thing he would never fail to read, and written on their faces is the language of frustration and the unease of the heart.

This is the closest he is to regaining that sense of familiarity— being the invisible bystander that sees all but bears no influence; like a shadow among shadows.

Except that it was better previously, when he was miles away and secluded. He had nothing to go on but a few photographs, words of witnesses, and an active imagination—he had forged them, in a way; centered them as characters in a story, and his was the cementing role. It gave him a sense of importance and freed him from guilt, if only temporarily.

How utterly useless and insignificant he feels himself to be now.

Even as Lemony stares at the middle Baudelaire and invokes feelings of relief that he is here; joy that he is safe; pride it was he who essentially found him, he finds none. He doesn't believe he will feel any of those emotions even should he locate the two remaining Baudelaires.

Because this is all temporary.

He didn't guarantee them safety. He's not protecting them. He hasn't changed a bit. He's still the selfish man who would flee without a second thought should threat come his way. And they know it. That's why he can't connect with them; they see through him and they know it.

His weight is heavy. He feels it too readily, causing him to lean tiredly against the doorframe, eyes glistening with a moist sheen but vapid of sentiment. The two Baudelaires look up simultaneously, and he watches Klaus's face turn from that of a canvas of pervading emotions to a parchment starved of colors. He is suspicious of him. Of course.

Lemony's eyes shift to lock with Violet's. They're not what he expected them to be. They don't mirror his thoughts in hostility and hatred towards himself. Instead they are melancholy and… almost remorseful.

Ah. That look. He recognizes that look.

It's the same one he saw on Beatrice's face the day she told him she was to leave him.

The thought makes him want to laugh. And cry. His lips twist upwards in a rueful mimicry of a smile and he expels a breath, turning to leave.

Violet is not Beatrice.

"Mr. Snicket!" echoes a voice from the forsaken room. The image of the face with which his mind associates it is blurring, contorting, morphing—

Violet is not Beatrice Violet is not Beatrice Violet is not Beatrice.

He hastens his steps on the stairs, darting through the darkness. Footsteps continue to approach.

Oh why can't she leave him be already! Is it not her intent?!

He is about to voice that thought aloud when he turns and finds the innocently confused face of Violet Baudelaire, and his chagrin is abated and replaced with shame. Violet is not Beatrice. She is her own person, and she carries with her the burden of three lives beside her own. Surely she doesn't need to be burdened with him and his selfish biases.

"Mr. Snicket," she voices quietly, her voice breathy from chasing after him.

He inclines his head downward for a moment of silent consideration, in which he reassembles his chaotic thoughts.

"Miss Baudelaire."

"I don't know how much you heard," she begins cautiously.

But he cuts her off. "Nothing at all," he says with haste, highlighting his subtextual desire to end the interchange for him to retire to his pensive solitude.

Violet straightens her shoulders, overlooking the dismissive insinuation. "Well… I take it that you drew something from our conversation all the same—"

"I was actually coming to inform you of a decision I've made," he cuts her off again, voice on edge.

She nods, tilting her head in a querying manner. It bewilders him how she has lived through so many atrocities yet remains to be as naive and ignorant of the world outside her inventive mind. It aggravates him greatly now.

"I have decided that the time for us to part has come." There is a taste of victorious, if not malicious, glee that laces his words and coats his tongue when he sees the semblance of shock on her still too-innocent face. "We have found your brother, and I believe you two have the resources to venture on your own. I am willing to supply whatever money you need, if this proves to be a detriment. But I have duty to fulfill elsewhere." The sweet taste is quickly made bitter. To lie like this is distasteful by all means, but the small nagging part of him that wants to be validated and preserve its pride overrides the guilt.

Except… her shock is quickly dissipated. Her visage is calm and curious. Wide brown eyes survey his countenance unabashedly.

"I don't think you mean that, Mr. Snicket," she mumbles the assessment she comes to at last.

There is no threat; no incredulousness; no disgust in her voice. Merely that aggravating, innocent curiosity.

He sucks in a discrete breath and remains rigid.

"For us to be discussing that same thing you come to decide… that's too great of a coincidence," she mumbles still, more to herself now than to him. "No… it doesn't make sense." She looks up at him again. "I think… you've just made the decision. You must have heard us… or otherwise deduced the content of our speech."

Her mental acuity derails him for too long seconds before he regains his stern, but weekend, stance.

She continues, mature and young, and wise and ignorant as she is, "… Klaus wants us to look for Sunny and Beatrice alone. He doesn't trust you. He says that it's likely that you'll turn against us when the chance presents itself… like everyone else did." Her frail arms rise to envelope her thin frame. "I don't blame him," she confesses in a whisper. "It's the pattern that's yet to break. But… we must give someone the opportunity to break it for that to happen, right?" A feeble shrug and an attempt at a smile before the short-lived facade breaks again.

"Life endows you with experience to teach you a lesson, miss Baudelaire," he utters darkly. "There isn't always a pattern to be broken."

"Perhaps not," she says quietly. "And perhaps so."

His mouth opens and closes before he shakes his head in amusement. How stubborn. How utterly Beatrice-like she is. "Optimism is a treacherous ally."

"I never said I was an optimist."

"Well, you have the recklessness of one," he counters. "Your brother has a point. I could turn against you when it suits me. Are you willing to risk your life and his to prove a hypothesis?"

"I'm not trying to prove a hypothesis." She frowns, attempting to gauge his perspective. Sighing, she continues, "Mr. Snicket, tragedy doesn't evade us. That's the one thing that became certain for me. If you and we separate now, then who's to say that we've escaped danger? It has too many forms to escape! And I'm done trying that. What is left for us is to adapt… We either adapt, or we die."

"Why do you insist on testing waters when you could walk on land? What good would staying with me do you?" he mutters, then shuts his eyes in self-reproach. The bitterness is too evident to his ears; the mask he dons is cracking. He wants to run.

"Well… for one, Klaus and I wouldn't have been reunited if not for you—"

"You don't know that."

"—And even if not for that," she says, intoning her growing frustration at being interrupted so frequently. Violet pauses and looks him in his evasive eyes. "You're my friend. I don't leave my friends behind." Sorrowfully, she adds in a whisper, "not if I could help it, at least."

Lemony furrows his eyebrows and frowns. He hopes that his countenance speaks for dismay and not for the confused plethora of feelings that run through his veins. Her friend? He hasn't earned that courtesy. Does she not realize — No, of course she doesn't.

But despite himself, he feels warmth spreading through his chest and tingling his nerves. Happiness, he notes with disquietude. He doesn't like happiness. It's the deceitful foe that lures him with what he loves most only to drop him from a great altitude. His body is beyond recovery. It leaves scars and indentations; memoirs for his mind to visit every night, depriving him of sleep.

No, he hates happiness. It never lasts.

His voice cracks and struggles to be heard. "I'm not your friend."

Violet smiles rather despondently. "You are. I might not be yours, but you are mine."

He wants to shake her, wake her from this fantasy that she's living. Mostly he wants to run. "Miss Baudelaire," he says pointedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "When you made that promise to your mother," he cannot believe he's stooping this low, "you must have realized that you would have to prime the safety of your siblings over personal affinities." What a hypocrite he is.

But she must realize the intent behind his words. The expression on her face—it is void of incredulousness, still. She's reading him and dissecting him. He can see the gears turning in her mind.

"You seem to be very adamant on making yourself out to be the enemy," she says, confused. "But you can't be. What kind of enemy would warn his intended victims from himself as much as you've been doing?"

Quietude looms before he speaks. "There is more than the kind of enemy you have in mind, Violet."

She stares at him in analytical silence. Eventually, she says, "I don't understand you at all, Mr. Snicket. But I suppose that's intentional on your part. You don't want to be understood."

She understands him better than most do, it turns out. Perhaps more than he does himself. This disconcerts him greatly.

Her voice cuts through his thoughts. "And… you have made my mother the same promise, correct? That you would watch over her children?" she intones the underlying meaning behind her words subtly, and he notes that imposing demands isn't something she enjoys doing. "You don't truly intend to break that promise, do you?"

It is his turn to assess her. He sees modesty and resolve reflected in her eyes, and just behind them, he sees the most gentle of fires refusing to die out. He decides he wants to make sure it doesn't die out.

"No," he says quietly. "No, I don't."

Violet's face breaks in a smile that serves as a surprising testament to her youth. She nods in approval. "Good, then."

At that moment, a rather disagreeable face emerges from behind a nearby door. "You two! Cut the chatter, it's time for the rest of us to sleep!" The door closes.

Lemony and Violet exchange a sheepish glance before deciding to descend the stairs again and into the parlor.

"Miss Baudelaire?"

"Hm?"

He hesitates. "I deeply apologize for my less than civil tone of speech. I… hate to think that I have offended you, or otherwise hurt you."

She looks at his profile with a small smile. "You called me Violet… at some point." He turns to her with a rather confused expression. "You may continue to do so, if you'd like."

He nods, but doesn't offer her the same liberty.

 

* * *

 

 

My vacation ends in a few days, so I thought it would be nice if I updated the story while I still had the free time. :)

It's interesting to write in Lemony's point of view for a change. His mind is full of darkness and self-hatred. I found that I had to keep referring the emotion-related events inwardly; inside the character's mind, where he primarily reflects on how they affect him. With Violet, on the other hand, such events are almost always referred externally, in which she wonders how she's affecting them.

I can only imagine how much the enigma that is Lemony "I'm a most confidential secret" Snicket perplexes Violet "I must understand how everything works" Baudelaire.

I don't think you guys know how much I depend on the description of their respective MBTI types in forming the characters. Violet (INTP) shows a copious amount of Ti + Ne when problem-solving, but I think it's logical to assume she's in a Ti-Si loop currently. And although she's an astute analyst, she faces problems reading the emotional atmosphere of the situation.

And Lemony is a painfully obvious INFP. He internalizes his feelings so much while staying in tune with them. Like Violet, he's looping (Fi-Si).

So just a quick thank you for MBTI for helping me get a handle on the characters. And apologies if this sounded like absolute gibberish to you. (Perhaps look up MBTI and the cognitive functions? They're an interesting read. Although you'd be advised to focus on the cognitive functions, as the dichotomies tend to introduce inaccurate stereotypes).

And of course, thank you plentifully to those who review. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Gentle sunlight trickles through the open window to caress Violet into wakefulness. Her eyes open slowly but do not fixate on any particular feature in her environment; she knows it’s alien and transient, just like every abode she has occupied in the last few years.

_I suppose that also makes it familiar and constant, in a sense…_

And as though to provide a testament to the regularity of her circumstances, she finds that she’s unable to summon any sentiment of distress or unease at waking in an ambiguous place, thousands of miles away from her hometown, and with people whose very motives she distrusts. Stranger than that, the weight atop her heart that she has become so accustomed to seems to have shed some of its burden. Her chest is light, and she can breathe without being suffocated by the lump in her throat. For the first time in a long while, she feels like things might turn out to be all right.

She tentatively tests the fragility of this feeling, reviving the thought of her sister and adoptive daughter in a flashing collage of two trusting faces melding with the azure of the sea. A lurch in her heart, and then serenity. The distinct assuredness of curious optimism reverberates in her mind and quells down her doubts and the incredulity of experience and reason.

_Olaf is dead. I have a friend, and I’ve found Klaus. Somehow, I’ll find Sunny and Beatrice as well. This then will all be over. This will all be over._

“This will all be over…” she whispers to herself, eyes shut against any detail that might impede this dream of a conviction as she balances on the boundary of a grim realization: _Count Olaf isn’t the epitome of evil, he’s just a bitter man who hid in its shadow._

She cuts the thought before it leads her into an abyss and throws her legs over the edge of the bed. A woman had placed some clothes for her on a nearby wooden chair. Violet picks up a shirt and traces its laced collar with a nostalgic smile, the pattern reminding her of years past, when she would watch her mother as she sifted through her elegant wardrobe, eyes vibrant and yearning. _One day, my Violet, you and I will share our clothes._

Violet swallows at the memory of her mother’s melodious laugh and straightens her stance. She dresses in that shirt and tucks it in a long skirt that reaches the middle of her calf. It’s not a habit of hers to stand too long in front of the mirror, but surprise holds her captive for long moments. She realizes that she hadn’t truly had the time to examine her appearance for a very long time, and that the marks of maturity aren’t merely felt, but also manifested. But that’s not what takes her aback. For a full second, she fancies she sees her mother staring back at her. Moisture gathers in her eyes and she scans her reflection for all the inconsistencies; the facets she so loved in her mother that are absent in her. Her eyes are a dark well of secrets where light doesn’t reach, contrasting with Beatrice’s glowing azures. Her hair is long and straight, concealing her frame from the hazards of the world, while Beatrice’s descended in cascading waves, ready for the sways of the wind and storms. No, she is not her mother…

She wonders if she would be proud could she see her now.

Slightly shaking her head to escape her reverie, she smoothes down the soft fabric of her skirt and exits the room into the hallway, just in time for a small form to crash into her. A colorful flurry of butterflies clouds her vision and she instinctively raises her forearms to shield her face, stepping back in surprise as a child scurries anxiously, arms reaching high with a flailing net in a desperate attempt to retrieve the insects.

“Come back!” he exclaims, chasing fruitlessly. “Come back!”

Violet stares at the sight for a bit before her bewilderment clears, but her visage retains its confusion. “What are you doing here?”

The kid sighs, shoulders slumped with surrender, before turning to her. Quite quickly, his despondence turns into complacent glee. “I’m a volunteer! I put out fires both literal and figurative! Wanna see my tattoo?”

Without awaiting a reply, he reaches down to unveil his ankle, and indeed, on his porcelain skin is a black insignia of the three ominous letters forming an eye. A shudder runs down her spine and she stands immobile before the impatiently expectant kid.

“Nevil!”

Both Violet and Nevil turn towards the source of the voice, seeing a stubby man in a patchy vest and a bowtie rushing towards them. Nevil stiffens and sucks in a guilty breath.

“Nevil! You can’t run amuck revealing such valuable information about yourself!” The man huffs out a tired breath after he comes to a halt. “You might only be a neophyte, but that doesn’t excuse you from disregarding the basics of your teachings!”

“Sorry, Mr. Hoffmeier… But she’s a volunteer, too, isn’t she?” He now eyes her with suspicion unbefitting his young age — as if he has been privy to treacheries and deceits of decades past.

Mr. Hoffmeier regards her as well; eyes puffed and scrutinizing. “Are you who I think you are?”

The words bring back a distant memory. She sees fire and death passing in an elapsing glimpse. “Of course I’m who you think I am.” The words come out quietly and monotonously from her mouth and she tastes their bitter tang. She hates having to fall into the same tedious pretense after she thought she had finally escaped it.

He issues a rasped ‘hm’ and quickly loses interest in her. Suddenly his eyes widen with realization, and Nevil shrinks instantly in his place. “My butterflies! What did you do with my butterflies?!”

“I didn’t do anything! They — they escaped!”

“Escaped!” he scoffs. “I’ve personally trained them to be the most courageous and loyal of all the VFD animals! They wouldn’t simply escape!”

Violet furrows her eyebrows and silently wonders how one goes about training butterflies. Then, as she notices the color on Mr. Hoffmeier’s cheeks becoming more brilliant in its redness and the growing apprehension on Nevil’s face, she intervenes. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going, so I collided with Nevil and the butterflies got away.”

The man fumes but otherwise refrains from expressing his anger. “Well—! Nevil, your next mission is to devise a way to retrieve them all.” He begins to walk away in a piqued march, with Nevil following close behind.

“But—!”

“No buts! This is in fact a perfect opportunity to hone your skills as a volunteer! You know what will happen if you prove yourself to be inefficient or otherwise lacking in ability.”

The voices slowly ebb away.

“The fire-starters will get to my parents and murder them,” Nevil replies in a toneless voice.

Violet sees the animated bob of Mr. Hoffmeier’s head, and she hears his last sentence before the two disappear into a room: “Which is why you must learn to put out the fire before it’s started. Kill it before it kills you, I say!”

Nausea couples the bitterness in her mouth and she can’t help the sense of unease that prods her mind. Forcing herself to brush off the discomfort, she focuses on her initial intent and glides softly on the wooden tiles, looking at the portraits of past volunteers, honored in gold-rimmed frames, high and imposing. Most of them she doesn’t recognize, and she makes a conjecture that they’re some of the very first members of VFD. Much to her surprise, she spots famous figures, one of whom is her favorite scientist. Her eyes widen and her steps come to a slow halt.

“Just how far has this organization fallen…” she mutters under her breath, and decides that it must have been truly honorable at some point. Unless… her heroes were morally questionable themselves. She shakes her head and dismisses the latter possibility before resuming her walk. It seems that all the knowledge she has acquired about the origins of VFD was a mere extract from a very complex whole. It doesn’t bode well with her to be so ignorant about something that bears an enormous influence on her life. Would Mr. Snicket be open to discussing this with her? She frowns. He probably wouldn’t. His secrecy is so intrinsic and extensive that she suspects he doesn’t play a conscious role in it.

 _However_ … Violet feels a small smile playing on her lips when she finally locates her intended destination. _Libraries are made to offer knowledge without reserve._

She grips the handle and twists it, a colorful ray of sunlight falling on her face as it passes through a mosaic window. Her smile widens when she sees her brother hunched over a table, surrounded by dozens of books piled haphazardly, with Tesla standing on top of a stack. How she has missed this sight. Klaus looks up instinctively at sensing he’s being watched, his features instantly relaxing and his eyes gaining a certain brilliance, but this ease is quickly dissipated into a guilt-ridden tentativeness.

“Good morning, Violet,” he greets slowly. “About last night… I didn’t mean to insult your friend. I just—”

“I know,” interrupts Violet, moving to sit on a chair nearby him. “I understand. I’d react in a similar way if our positions were reversed.”

Klaus hesitates, his eyes glued to the words of an unread passage and frowning. “But that’s not to say that I’ve changed my mind about this — about him. He might turn out to be a treacherous person after all…”

Quietly, she says, “can’t you afford to give him the benefit of the doubt?”

He faces his sister, and two pairs of dark, weary eyes meet. She reads exhaustion and cynicism in his gaze, and he reads sadness and pleading in hers. Klaus sighs and offers the smallest impression of a smile. “Of course I can.”

If his words begot him any kind of discomfort, it is quickly eroded by seeing his sister’s face light up with relief and gratitude.

“And in any case,” he says, standing from his chair before withdrawing a book from a shelf and flipping through it, “I wouldn’t be much of a researcher if I made judgements without looking into the case in depth.”

Despite herself, Violet finds that she’s greatly intrigued. Her need to analyze the inner workings of the elusive Mr. Snicket hasn’t escaped her consciousness, but rather gained a guilt-inducing mien. Should she probe into his life regardless of his blatant insinuations that he would very much prefer to keep it private? She definitely wouldn’t appreciate it he did it with her, but… this is her family’s safety that is in question. She must be cautious for them.

Despite that assured conviction, her heart twinges for a second. _I’m sorry, Mr. Snicket. But you must understand…_

“Have you found something?” she voices at last.

“There’s a book that provides extensive profiles on all volunteers—”

Violet sucks in a breath.

“—but it’s written in a code that requires the ability to speak Farsi, French, and Fingallian.”

She furrows her brows, head tilted to the side. “Fingallian?”

“It’s an extinct language formerly spoken in Ireland—a derivative of middle English.” He sighs, closing the book in his hands. “It will take me quite a while until I’m able to make sense of what’s written.”

“We don’t have that sort of time…” she says contemplatively before rising and examining the numerous tomes lining the aging shelves. “Isn’t there another source?”

Klaus reaches for a file just beside her head, and Violet notes that his lips are curved upwards slightly; a gesture that parades itself whenever his research provides him with interesting information. “Not yet, but there will be,” he says cryptically.

Violet glances upon the parchment in his hold and at first notes nothing of interest: A description of an occurrence at an Italian restaurant involving two obscure volunteers. It’s only when her eyes reach the end of the passage that they gain a brilliance of realization. Scribbled in an italic, hasty handwriting is a signature — _L. Snicket._

“Of course… Mr. Snicket is a writer…” she mutters, then surveys the expanse of the library. “His works must be present here — or at least, some of them.”

He nods slowly, exhaling a long breath. “Finding them won’t be easy. It’s as if all the books here are arrayed in a way that’s meant to derail anyone who isn’t involved directly in the organization.”

She turns to her brother then and takes a moment to examine him. He has grown quite a bit since the beginning of their ordeal; no longer is he the boy with the soft voice who stood a few inches beneath her. She finds that now she must look up at him rather than the contrary, and her chest swells with pride at what she finds. Her brother is a dependable, intelligent young man with an insight that rivals that of anyone she has ever known, and her ever-present trust in him resonates all the more firmly.

“But you will find them,” she says, as though stating a simple fact.

“I must…” he mutters, lost in his thoughts.

A faint screech is heard briefly as the door opens, causing the two Baudelaires to turn simultaneously to survey the intruder. They stand in a silence as Lemony peers at them from beneath his hat with his intense blue eyes, holding Klaus a captive in his scrutiny before leaving him and fixating on Violet. The sombre gleam softens to a warm shimmer. He quickly averts his gaze then, regaining his aloof mien.

“Good morning, Baudelaires,” he says, moving in purposeful strides towards a high shelf and retrieving what appears to be a compilation of documents.

“Good morning, Mr. Snicket,” greets Violet with an amiable nod. “Did you sleep well?”

Lemony raises an eyebrow at her unprecedented attempt at smalltalk, but upon appraising her, he notes that her question is earnest. She’s reading him again with unabashed browns. “I slept as I always do…” he replies ambiguously, clearing his throat. He looks at Klaus again and sees that his attention is entirely centered on the folder in Lemony’s hand.  
“Well,” he says, instinctively tightening his hold on the papers. “I’m off to search for the two younger Baudelaires.” Drawing his lips in a thin, strained smile, he quickly exits the library.

“Violet,” says Klaus, voice hasty and hushed. “Go with him, and keep him away for a few hours. This will give me the time to locate his writings.”

A frustrated lump forms in her throat, wishing to make an egress and assure him that such measures don’t need to be taken, but such a reaction would be purely based on an emotional bias. She understands his precaution, and so primes logic over her sentimentality as she is wont to do.

With a nod that comes after a moment’s consideration, she strides outside the building and follows Lemony’s trail, finding his coat-clad form as it disappears into the darkness of an alley. Quickening her steps, she reaches him at last, her breath short and her lungs aching from taking in large gulps of crisp-cold air.

Lemony looks at her in what she interprets as dismayed curiosity. She answers his question before it exits his lips.

“I decided I would come with you,” she says, gazing up at him with silent resolve.

He doesn’t answer her immediately, and she fears he might attempt to send her back. But to her surprise…

A cloud of vapor forms as he exhales a breath. It hangs gently in the air before dispersing. “If only you wore something more befitting of the weather, miss Baudelaire.”

She can’t help the grin that claims her lips, her eyebrows slightly rising. “Don’t worry, Mr. Snicket. I’ve dealt with worse things than the cold.”

Unconvinced, he hums noncommittally and removes his scarf, offering it to her silently. She takes it and wraps it around her neck, having it fall to cover her frail shoulders. Lemony commences his stride then, with Violet picking up pace quickly. They soon fall into the pattern to which they have become accustomed.

“Mr. Snicket?”

“Yes, miss Baudelaire?”

“Please call me Violet.”

Silence, then…

“Very well… Violet.”

—

**Ah. I’ve been wanting to update for a while now, but university is all too time consuming. In any case, here is the new chapter, and I hope you all liked it. :) Thank you for sticking with me, and thank you for reviewing. Reading your comments makes me very happy, and truly it’s a motivation to continue.**

**I must admit, this story seems to be writing itself, which is a good thing. It means I’m not forcing anything to occur, but merely following the logical series of events that correspond to the characters’ predilections and personalities.**  
**I wonder where Violet and Lemony will take me (and by association, you, dear readers).**

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

  
_What is it about a person sentenced to a life of fearful wariness that makes them instantly noteworthy?_ Suspicious and curious eyes hooded by furrowed brows swipe over Violet’s visage beyond her ability to escape them. She shifts her focus from one point to another, unsure if it is the intensity of the commoners’ gaze that guides her own, or if it’s a futile attempt of hers to find a less hostile front.

“The best disguise, Violet,” says Lemony unexpectedly, and she faces his untouched, aloof profile, “is one where you do not don a guise, but instead convince yourself that you are no different from what you seek to emulate.”

She breathes a discreet sigh, eyes downturned in introspection. “How does one go about doing that?”

“You locate your sense of identity, everything you are… and you lose it.”

Her mouth opens for a second, but resigns to closure at the failure of her thoughts to be coherently expressed. How does she explain that her identity is something she hasn’t been able to touch upon and identify for longer than she cares to admit? And should she come to find it, she would grasp it with the firmest of grips and refuse to let go, never mind abandon it! Yet how simply he states this claim, how apathetically… From the corner of her eye, she appraises his silent countenance — the grimly set jaw, the mouth drawn into a thin line, the sharpened edges. and the pale skin… but those are features she merely grazes. Her interest lies predominantly in his eyes, secretive and excluding as they are. No one is born with their hearts shut against the world. He must have built the fences and secured the doors with iron clamps endowed by scarring incidence. How many times did he have to lose his sense of who he is? And when did he forget where he had placed it altogether? Has he, even?

Her scrutiny must have been intense enough to cause him to view her momentarily, turning the very object of her inspection towards her in an involuntary move. Fleeting as it was, it acts as the line that connects the dots in her discerning mind. _Traces of curiosity; a softening of tenderness; then alarm…_

_No, by no means is he as apathetic as he tries to make himself out to be._

But what is it about her that causes him to be so… scared? Is he scared of her? She doesn’t know, and a slight prickling in her mind causes her to frown in frustration. She hates not knowing, but mostly she hates not understanding. Quite unfortunately for her, human beings aren’t meant to be prodded and dissected as her precious clockwork automatons. Observation is what remains for her.

Despite herself, she feels a rush of excitement at the prospect of Klaus locating Lemony’s writings. She hopes dearly they aren’t void accounts of disinteresting phenomena. Again, the pang of anticipation is soon allayed by dreaded guilt. But why does her conscience torture her so if the books are present in a library and made available to everyone? It’s not like she’s infiltrating his quarters and ransacking his belongings. The answer shines in her mind in a flash of realization. _If what you’re doing isn’t something you’re willing to share, then the chances are you aren’t supposed to be doing it._

And like a page in a novel filled with dismaying occurrences, she flips the leaf in contained vexation and clears her mind of the words, the question of her merit as a friend lingering softly in the premises of her thoughts.

Perhaps he isn’t as opposed to sharing information about who he is now. Perhaps the flash of tenderness that arose and evaporated with equal swiftness in his eyes meant that he did think of her as a friend after all.

She decides to put the theory to the test.

“Mr. Snicket,” she says to get his attention, her voice quiet with the ever-present fear that an unnamed enemy could be listening. “Tell me about the organization… before the schism.” His eyebrows rise instantly, but he trains his features to regain their former mien. “You said you were friends with my parents, but I suspect that friendship ended around that time, since… they never really mentioned you. What happened?”

Lemony’s posture is stiff, and the shadow on his face cast by his hat darkens. “You phrase your questions so simply, Violet, yet the answers are anything but.”

Softly, she says, “I don’t expect a simple answer.”

He draws in a shaky breath and fixes hardened eyes that are made less severe by the impression of tears to the cobbled ground. “It is worth knowing that I was in better acquaintanceship with your mother than with your father. Indeed we were… held together in the warmest of rapports.” His voice softens gradually and becomes more distant. “The schism was responsible in the breaking of this… companionship, but not in the manner you seem to have in mind. We did not choose different sides; opposing or contiguous though they may be. Rather, in a complex web of occurrences, I was forced to become distant from the organization, and my rumored death was broadcast upon all ears. I maintained the pretense, transforming the rumor into reality, since… it seemed to be the safer alternative. I chose to live in obscurity… as you have invariably noticed, I am a much sought-after man. Separation was inevitable, unavoidable, concrete…” A shaking hand rises to quickly clear away the descending tears, his neck craning as he inclines his head downward until his chin touches his chest.

Violet stands in bewildered stupor, never having truly expected him to answer her question, and definitely not expecting the cold-mannered Mr. Snicket to be so quickly claimed by tears. A hesitant hand hangs in the air, hovering just by his shoulder in a semblance of a comforting caress. Somewhere along his monologue, the two halted their pace and stood immobile in a sea of hurrying people. A few passersby send them scornful looks, but at least they aren’t marred by suspicion. A man collides with her, causing her hand to resign on the weeping man’s shoulder.

“You loved her,” she voices her realization, shocked by it as by everything else.

But he seems to not hear her. He seems to not notice her presence at all as he continues in frenzied, hushed tones. “It is of course my fault. My fault! I could have…!” He grunts, clutching his head in a sudden move, and Violet retreats by reflex.

“What was your fault?” she questions in haste, her need for answers propelling her.

“She died!” he cries. “It could have been preventable, but I… I am too cowardly, too dastardly, too selfish…!” He dashes forward, striding forward in haste, as though to escape his thoughts more than anything else.

Violet pursues, attempting to match her pace to his. “What do you mean? Mr. Snicket, who was responsible for the fire? Was it not Count Olaf?”

“No,” he growls, a bitter laugh rising in his throat. “No, miss Baudelaire, that heinous crime was too calculated and methodical to be done by a person as impulsive and impatient as Olaf.”

“Then who—”

“Count Olaf, as wretched and vile as he was, was by no means a mastermind in the schism,” he interrupts, still feverish and frantic. “Our lives do not become easier, no, they never become easier… But I cannot fail again…”

Something sets inside Violet, and she finds that she is too tired of being led through mazes with nothing but dead ends. Her short-lived hope for a peaceful existence has been shattered in the span of a few minutes and the fear reignited inside her heart with alarming fervor. Exasperated, she says, “Mr. Snicket, just tell me! Tell me who did it! Tell me what happened, I deserve to know!”

His face twists in misery as his painfully shut eyes produce fresh tears. He holds his head in a white-knuckled clutch, shaking it against the vehemence of his thoughts. “Violet,” he chokes out in a broken voice. “If you have an ounce of mercy — If you have an ounce of compassion, you will not ask me this again!”

Her mouth hangs agape. She is at a loss for words and her frustration has reached its limit. She wants to scream and demand for explanations. She wants to cry her heart out at how unfair the world is. Surprising and alarming her, she wants to kill everyone who has ever hurt her and her family. But this last desire freezes her in aghast horror at herself. _An impulse of a moment. Nothing more. Nothing more!_ She would never hurt anyone. She doesn’t have it in her. Does she?

Moisture clouds her vision and she swallows her fermenting scream. Her misery doesn’t end with Count Olaf’s demise… It extends beyond her scope of vision and resides in the hands of persons she has no knowledge of. And there is little she can do about it.

Violet’s plethora of emotions mix and fire in intense bursts, but when it all ends, she is left with fear. The same fear that has followed her for years on end. She focuses her vision on Lemony’s weeping form. The imposing and impenetrable shadow has become tangible, tactile, and utterly fragmented. She pities him. She understands him in a way that her intellectual mind cannot touch upon.

An invisible thread pulls her forward, and she feels her weight more keenly with every trodden step, a lump forming and residing in her throat.

Silently, she opens her frail arms and embraces him. In characteristic irony, his coat-clad frame is colder to the touch than her thinly-dressed, shivering person. He stands stiff and stagnant, and she compensates by gripping onto the fabric of his coat with all the ardor she can muster, like a child seeking refuge from an invisible monster in the arms of a brass figurine. But soon he yields, and the figurine gains a life and the safety is no longer conjured by the sheer power of imagination, yet that does not make it any less fictive. His clutch is stronger than hers, hurting her slightly as he encircles her middle much like a constrictor, forcing her to stand on her tip-toes to make up for the height difference. She makes no move to ease his clasp and simply allows him to unburden his heart as he cries. Violet herself feels her head pulsate with the pain of withheld tears, and she lets them escape in large, burning droplets.

Lemony mutters apologies and pleas for forgiveness. Violet shakes her head incessantly, silently imploring him to stop. She doesn’t know why he is apologizing, and the whispers serve as nothing more than a proof for an obscure incrimination and a scape for her imagination to run wild. If he refuses to supply her with the crime, then she will not give the verdict.

 _But_ , a moment of furious clarity dawns upon her, her tears suspended in vehement brown eyes and her nails digging through wool, _I will find out what happened. It doesn’t have to be from him. I will find out!_

This becomes another promise that she carves into her heart and lets run throughout her body with every drop of blood rushing through her vessels. No more will she be ignorant of what brings her and her family anguish.

White noise erupts in her ears and her eyes widen. If their troubles are truly far from over… then who is to say Sunny and Beatrice are not in harm’s way right now? They are only two young girls, alone… _So young… too young… my responsibility._

Violet withdraws in a jerk, causing Lemony to stumble forward in surprise. He quickly readjusts his stance but refuses to meet her eyes, his face flushed and twisted severely in abashed vexation; vexation at himself and his lack of impulse control. Her face is grim as well, but unbeknownst to him, it is not because of the plethora of negative adjectives with which he stones himself. His fist clenches at his side.

“… Forgive me for my indecen—”

“Let’s go, Mr. Snicket. We must find Sunny and Beatrice.”

Quietly and so serenely she issues her command, that if not for the look of pure fury in her delicate features, one would think she is merely seeking out the two girls from a playground. But Lemony hears beyond the quietude until his ears reach the austere abandon of a person who has little to lose, and it leaves him with a sense of unease.

She leads the way stoically, though she doesn’t know where they intend to go. He takes her side, acting as a silent compass that insinuates the direction rather than dictate. No word is exchanged between the two, and the first glance they share is when Lemony stops before a ragged, musty inn. A few drunkards stand by the entrance, their faces bruised and bloodied from a brawl. Indistinct voices can be heard from inside; shouting and jeering and cheering in a molded mess of noise.

“The informant said he was to meet me here,” mutters Lemony, scanning the contours of the place with clear distaste. “But he didn’t specify just how unpleasant a locale it was for a rendezvous.” Sardonic sarcasm drips from every word he enunciates, but his voice loses this quality as he inclines his head in Violet’s direction, albeit still refraining from looking at her. “Are you certain you want to go in?”

But she doesn’t answer. Her frail clean hand that contrasts with the stained and rusted door rises as it grips the handle, turning it open. The smell that strikes them is many folds worse than the diluted impression that greeted them outside, and they raise their arms instinctively to act as a shield against the rancidness.

“Come,” says Lemony in a muffled voice.

They make their way quickly through the tables, ignoring the stares and refusing to look in anyone’s direction. He locates a darkly-dressed figure sitting in an isolated corner, face downturned and eyes obscured by a frayed hat.

“Here is our man,” he mutters. Violet nods her head and strides forward.

The man raises his head to reveal yellowed, piercing eyes that scan the pair with analytical interest. He smirks to himself and gestures his hand lazily by means of greeting. “At last comes my client. Or should I say clients?” His gaze lingers on Violet, assessing her in a manner that makes her throat constrict and her stomach turn.

An arm cuts through his field of vision as Lemony extends it for a handshake. “Ceylon Ken Smit. And this is my colleague, Arielle-Eva Butoid.”

Despite her bemusement by the pseudonyms, Violet doesn’t blink, maintaining a blank, earnest facade. The man himself raises an eyebrow as he shakes Lemony’s hand, giving a slow, suspicious nod.

“Mine is Lloyd Bernall. A pleasure! A pleasure, indeed, Mr. Smit and miss… Butoid? An unusual name,” he muses, offering his hand to the girl, who shakes it quickly before he has the chance to bring hers to his lips.

“It’s French,” she says with a slight accent.

“French!” he reclines backwards, eyebrows raised in faux fascination. “How exotic! Oh, but never mind that! Let’s get to business.” Here, he leans forward and rests his chin on his linked hands. “Mr. Smit, you will be pleased to know I have the information you requested.”

“Well, I certainly hoped we weren’t brought here in vain,” quips Lemony darkly. Leaning in to whisper to him, he continues, “how much do you demand?”

“Oh! I do not deal in cash. Much too boring for me! I enjoy a bit of a gamble.” He issues a small grin, ignoring his interlocutor’s desire for secrecy with his boisterous voice. Bending to retrieve something from under the table, he grabs hold of a wooden box and places it on the table.

“See this?” he taps an iron padlock hanging from the center of the box. “This lock opens only based on the purity of one’s intentions. If your intentions are not pure, it will remain closed, and you will not get the information you need.” In a swift move, he reveals a brass key of medium size. “This,” he places it in the keyhole, “is the associated key. As you can well see, it fits perfectly well. But whether it functions or not,” he turns it, and the lid of the box opens, “is entirely dependent on you.”

After locking the box again, he offers the key to Lemony, who regards the object and its holder with complete suspicion. “Is that it? A mere game of luck?”

Bernall clicks his tongue, shaking his head slowly. “I do need to make my living somehow, do I not? The deal is thus: If you do open it, then you receive your information free of charge. If you don’t, then no information, and you give me something of your own. Like…” his eyes search Lemony’s form before residing on a golden chain poking from beneath his vest. “That nice little pocket watch of yours. And please do not call it a game of luck, it is much _much_ more than that! What do you say?”

The writer sighs and retrieves his watch, eyeing the object wistfully — the sole reminder of his departed sister. But then again, he doesn’t believe in the principle behind the dealer’s game. He is certain there is a ploy somewhere, but his choices are limited. Lemony places it on the table and takes the key into his hand.

“Very well.” He examines the key and the box, attempting the evade the trick before falling for it, but he finds nothing out of the ordinary. Sparing a look at Violet beside him, he sees that she too is confused and suspicious, but otherwise passively pensive. He sighs again and puts it in its assigned place, turning it clockwise. Instantly he finds that its passage is barred. He tries in the other direction, but alas, nothing comes of it, and he ends up jerking the key to and fro with a silent plea for it to open.

Bernall lets out a dramatic breath. “Your intentions are not pure after all. Pity.” He grins widely, extending his open palm. “Your watch, please.”

Lemony stares at him, his eyes glinting momentarily in irritation. “It is a trick,” he grumbles. “Not by any means a legitimate exchange.”

“No, no you can’t blame your foul intentions on my honest trade, Mr. Smit! That simply would not do, don’t you think miss Butoid?” He glances at Violet patronizingly before returning to Lemony, his smile never leaving his face. “I gave the conditions, and you accepted. Now you must uphold your end of the bargain!” He snatches the watch before its owner can issue another protest, standing quickly and collecting his box. “Well, sir, miss, it has been a pleasure—”

“I would like to try,” says Violet calmly and both men turn to her. Lemony puts forth a silent enquiry with his disconcerted eyes, but it is not answered.

“Delightful!” exclaims the man, returning to his position and leaning speculatively to examine the unyielding girl more closely. “But what could you have that I want?” he mutters to himself. “Nothing, nothing at all of interest…” An idea bestows a passing shimmer to his dark eyes. “Nothing _materialistic_ of course, but not necessarily _physical_ …”

Lemony’s alarmed voice cuts through his contemplation, “what are you insinuating?”

“A night with the lady is what I demand,” says Bernall simplistically, not at all perturbed by the aghast expression of the man before him.

“Absolutely no—”

“Fine.” Again, Violet’s voice begets the two men to shift their attention towards her.

“Miss Bau—Butoid!” Lemony’s voice, although vehement, comes in a hushed, horrified timbre.

But her own lack of mortification causes the other man to rethink his offer, a simper distorting his harsh features unpleasantly. “Actually… there are two girls, yes? A night for information per girl.”

Violet ignores her burning lids and falling heart, digging her nails into the flesh of her palm in an attempt to exude all the fear in the quietest way possible. She swallows and hates her voice that quivers. “All the same.”

“Excellent!” Lloyd offers the key to her in a mockery of a curtesy. “My lady.”

“She is a child, you sick miscreant!” growls Lemony, furious impressions of tears scorching his eyes.

This claim triggers an instant incredulousness in her, replacing fear with pique. “I am not a child!” she says, facing Lemony who fixates his fervent, imploring gaze on her. Her eyes burn ardently with the need for him to _understand, just understand_. Understand that after all she has been through, she transcended her age and societal propriety; that self-serving behavior is not and could not ever be tolerated by her; that her life is not worth living if her family is not there with her.

The emphasis behind her words is not lost when she softens her tone. “I will not have decisions made on my behalf, Mr. Smit.”

Lemony feels so defeated, his shoulders falling and his voice becoming small and plaintive. “Don’t make me fail to protect you. Not again. Not while I am right here.”

“It’s not your job to protect me,” she says softly. “And if you hold yourself to it, then I ask you to relieve yourself from it. I am my own person, and I will act based on what I think is right.”

“A touching exchange though it may be,” Bernall’s humorous voice cuts through, “I have other places to be and my patience is rather limited. Lady?” He dangles the key lazily and she takes it.

Running her thumb across the ridges, she grabs the box and peers into the keyhole pensively, but whenever she attempts to follow a thought to its finale, she is held still. Her hair falls across her shoulders distractingly and her hand itches to push it back. At last, she deposits the key and takes hold of the scarf around her neck, twisting it around her hair and tying it. Peculiar as it may sound, this seemingly inane gesture clears her thoughts and opens her mind, and she returns to her inspection of the key.

Bernall taps his foot impatiently, boring his eyes into her. “Quite a dramatic girl you have, Mr. Smit,” he drawls.

Lemony bestows upon him a glare from the side of his eye but soon returns his attention to the Violet, chin resting on a shaking hand and teeth digging into his finger.

The inventor takes one last glance at the key and its lock and becomes ascertained in one thing: It is impossible to reach any kind of conclusion without some probing. And so with hitched breath, she enters the key and examines its play, feeling for the tumblers that are meant to match the notches. _It’s too loose._ The bolt is not swayed and the match is meretricious. She turns it slowly, vicariously feeling the bolt and testing it. _If it’s not the key that slides it open, then what is?_

Far away from her speculative mind, the two men watch the display with contradicting emotions. Bernall has his teeth bared in a self-contented smile and Lemony has his mouth agape.

_She failed._

“What a rightful shame, my lady! Your intentions are not pure. But a deal is a deal, and you will uphold your end.” He grabs her wrist just in time when Lemony grabs him by the lapels of his jacket.

“Wait!” says Violet. “There are two girls and… two nights,” she continues, shaken, “isn’t it only fair that I get two chances?”

The vile man exhales a long breath, lips thinning. “One more chance. When you fail, you come with me.” He jerks himself free from Lemony’s grip, who in turn positions himself in a way that allows him to grab Violet and flee as quickly as possible.

The frightened girl nods slowly and takes the key again, thinking hard with all her might.

 _It’s not the key. Then what is it? But the man did manage to open the box when he placed it, so the key is partly responsible… How? The tumblers at the back of the lock are hardly complementary —_ a light switches behind her eyes and they gain a telltale brilliance _— because they aren’t tumblers at all! They’re bumps… with a metal-like consistency. Wires? Why wires?_

“Any time now!”

The incessant tapping is grating her nerves. She shuts it out.

_Could it be…?_

She sucks in a breath and her grip on the key tightens. She notices that its base has a plastic insulator. _It could be…!_

“Do it already!” Bernall growls.

Violet looks at him, seeing his callous features and dead, hungry eyes, before turning to Lemony in an undisclosed imploration for support. He gives her a wavering, strained smile, and it is all she needs.

She places the key again and tests her theory, hand shaking uncontrollably. It nudges the interior of the lock here and there, looking for something to yield. _Please, please let it be true._

The girl all but gasps when she manages to press a button-like structure and senses the familiar buzz of an electric current. _It’s an electromagnet!_ With hardly contained jubilation, she begins to work the key, picking the weakened lock efficiently under the influence of the magnetic field. The lid of the box opens, and a cloud of shocked silence hangs in the air for long moments.

“Impossible,” Bernall hisses. “What have you done to the box?!”

“Clearly my intentions are pure after all,” says Violet, unable to help the sarcastic inflection that laces her still-trembling voice. She sits up straighter and raises her head, breathing heavily and grinning despite herself.

Lemony himself allows for a relieved exhale of breath. “Well?” he breathes, tearing his eyes off the box and onto the dealer. “It’s your turn to uphold your end of the bargain, Mr. Bernall. Where are Sunny and Beatrice Baudelaire?”

Ire and disdain discolor Bernall’s eyes all the more; his snarl twisting his lips in a sinister manner. “I will give you the location, Mr. Snicket. But don’t deceive yourself into thinking you have bested me.” A cold shiver runs down Lemony’s spine, though he maintains a nonplussed facade. Bernall scribbles something on a paper and slides it down the table. Violet snatches it quickly.

The man stands and tips his hat. “Fare-not-so-well, Mr. Snicket, miss Baudelaire.” He takes his contraption and disappears among the crowd.

Lemony stares on ahead, taking note of the man’s behaviorism and manner of speech; his mode of dress; his voice; and most importantly his method of operating. He silently begins to sketch a plan to identify every last detail about him.

“Mr. Snicket,” says Violet, who remains too occupied with the piece of paper. “It says they’re in a cathedral in Paris. Do you think it’s true?”

“… I don’t know what I think, Violet,” mutters Lemony. “I will have to do further research. But I have an uneasy feeling about this.”

She thins her lips and nods solemnly, her spirits deflating yet again as she becomes acutely aware of how fatigued she is. A surprised yelp escapes her lips when Lemony suddenly crushes her to his chest, his hand holding her head protectively.

“You foolish girl,” he whispers, eyes shut tightly. “You foolish, clever girl.”

 

* * *

 

 

Well. Violet’s peaceful contentment didn’t last long. But I suppose that goes with the theme of “no happy beginning, no happy ending, and very few happy things in-between.” I must admit, many times I get ideas for scenarios but reject them because they seem too dark, and I’m not sure how far I should go with this story. Poor Violet is about seventeen years old, and it disturbs me to think she has to go through all of that. However, age-imposed restrictions are a commodity she can’t afford to have in her position. Baah I don’t know.  
Writing this chapter was interesting (basically I sat on the ground and brainstormed a dilemma that can be solved with physics). I was able to update relatively quickly because I am at last finished with my studies for the semester.  
And as always, your continued support means a lot to me, so thank you dearly. :D (Although there come times when I wonder why you’re reading this misery-filled story. ^^” )


End file.
